Et In Arcadia Ego
by Arsinoe de Blassenville
Summary: When Colonel Tavington and his dragoons rescue three Loyalist sisters from an isolated plantation, events are set in motion that will change his life. Can he accept the opportunities Fate has offered him? COMPLETE with new appendices
1. Chapter One: A Routine Patrol

**__**

Disclaimer: I own none of the rights to the film The Patriot. Equally, I own none of the fictional characters from it, not even Colonel William Tavington, alas.

Author's note: I have been inspired by other writers, most particularly DocM in her wonderful _The Loyal Daughter_, to imagine the American Revolution from the Loyalist side. This story is told in third person from Tavington's point of view exclusively. As such, I felt I must include all scenes in the film in which he appears. However, since so many elements in the film are contrary to fact, I have appended some historical notes as necessary. Some dates, such as that of Cowpens, have been changed in order to agree with actual events. Needless to say, the British were not Nazis, and no one ever burned a church full of people. In real life, the most tragic conflicts are those in which well-meaning people want to do the right thing, but cannot agree what the right thing to do is….

The title is a Latin phrase that most famously appears as the name of a painting by Poussin, in which rustic nymphs and shepherds contemplate a tomb. The phrase can be interpreted two ways: either "I, Death, am also in Arcadia;" or "I once lived in Arcadia, too." Mortality is ever present, even in a place that embodies the beauty and simplicity of country life. ****

ET IN ARCADIA EGO

CHAPTER ONE: A Routine Patrol

South Carolina was a rich and beautiful place, Tavington decided, but not fit for human habitation in the summer. It had been an over-long patrol under a hot sun. Their uniforms clung sweat-sodden to them; it was impossible to drink enough water. Dealing with treacherous Crackers, and listening to their incomprehensible jargon, had tried his never strong patience. Perhaps the knights of the Crusades were right: _Kill them all and let God sort them out_. He looked back over his dragoons. They were bearing up well enough, but their mounts needed a breather.

"Wilkins!"

The local-born captain brought up his horse beside him. "Sir?"

"Is there a Loyal family within a few miles of here? The horses need rest and water without having to fight for them."

Wilkins tilted his head back, thinking. Then he grinned.

"Well, yes, sir. There's the Wildes' place, called 'Arcadia.'" He stretched in the saddle slightly, easing his back. "A little out of the way, but as loyal as any you'd like to see. John Wilde's dead, of course. Got wounded in Georgia last year and died here at home, but his widow's bound to be glad to see us, with all the murdering Rebels about. She's an Everleigh, you see, which makes her kin to me on my mother's side--"

"_Thank_ you, Captain Wilkins," snapped Tavington, cutting him off. Of course Wilkins was related to every family within a fifty-mile radius. They were an incestuous pack of savages, at best. An elusive memory stirred. "Wait! Wilde, you say? John Wilde the naturalist?"

"Yes sir, that's the one," the hulking Carolinian answered readily. "Kind of an eccentric fellow, you see, sir. He came here from England years ago to paint plants and birds and such. Not a bad sort, really. He could ride and shoot and all like a gentleman, but sometimes he'd go off for days and take all his drawing gear with him, and my cousin Peter swears that he once saw him up in a tree down Camden way. There he was, drawing like it was the most regular thing in the world, and Peter calls out to him, asking what he's doing, and old Wilde answers, 'Following my Muse.'" Wilkins snorted to himself and chuckled, "Following his Muse."

Tavington grimaced. He had admired some of Wilde's work he had seen years ago in London, and then more recently in Charlestown. The impressive folio publication of _Flora and Fauna of the Carolina Colonies_ was hardly within his own means, but he had greatly enjoyed the occasional glimpses that various acquaintances' libraries had afforded. He felt a pang for John Wilde, surrounded by ignorant yokels like Wilkins. And now dead, it seemed. All that artistry and passion for nature snuffed out by a clod of a Rebel. 

"All right," Tavington said. "How far is it?"

Wilkins shrugged, "Not more than another hour, I reckon, Colonel."

Longer than he liked, but worth it if it meant a chance to see Wilde's home. If the widow were truly sympathetic to the King's cause, perhaps he and his officers might be invited into the house, and he could get a look at some of Wilde's other work.

He gave a nod to Wilkins. "Lead on, then, Captain."

A sunken road led them through overhanging cedars. The shade was welcome, and Wilkins assured him that the house was "on apiece," but not too far now.

Suddenly the road turned northeast, and Tavington glimpsed part of a tall white house and an ivy-covered chimney. Gradually the whole house was revealed: large enough, but strangely retiring. Perhaps it was all the trees crowding thick around it, and the flowering vines garlanding the columns of the front veranda.

Then the silence struck him. An estate like this should be alive with people--family, servants, slaves. There should be horses in the nearby pasture, and activity toward the back by the kitchen and the slave cabins. 

He exchanged a quick look with Bordon, who was obviously of the same mind. 

"An ambush, sir?" muttered the captain.

"Tell Hunt and Monroe to be on their guard." Bordon turned his horse back to confer with his junior officers. Tavington eyed Wilkins with suspicion. He was new to Tavington's command, and the quality of his loyalty was still unknown. Wilkins seemed to notice nothing amiss, and appeared to be anticipating nothing more than a pleasant round of gossip with distant relations.

As they cantered up to the house, Tavington noticed that it was not entirely deserted. A small figure sat on the edge of the veranda, legs dangling over.

Closer in, he saw it was a nicely dressed little girl, who jumped to her feet and waved to them. Bordon glanced at his colonel, and Tavington shrugged. Hard to believe that even Rebel scum would risk a child in such a way. As he reined in at the front steps, the child saluted.

"Hello! Good day to you, gentlemen! We're so happy to see you!" Looking past Tavington she beamed. "Oh, hello, Cousin James! You look very nice." Some of the dragoons stifled guffaws.

Tavington raised an eyebrow at Wilkins. "Well, Captain, will you not introduce me to the lady?"

"Of course, sir. Colonel Tavington, may I present Miss Julia Wilde?"

The little girl squeaked with excitement. "Are you _that_ Colonel Tavington?"

"I am quite sure I must be, Miss Julia." The child seemed impressed rather than fearful. "I would be obliged if you would fetch your mother. We must request that she extend her hospitality to us and to our horses in His Majesty's name."

"Oh, of course you can stay," the girl waved airily. "We're happy to have you, though we wish you'd come last week. And I can't fetch Mamma." Her happy mood evaporated. "She's dead."

"Cousin Emma's dead?" Wilkins seemed shocked. "Was it the Rebels?"

"No," answered Julia flatly, "a cancer." She turned back to Tavington. "Lilabet won't mind you staying. I'd get her, but she's trying to make Melly come out of the woods." Tavington stared at her. The girl brightened. She asked in a grown-up voice no doubt copied from her mother, "Would you and your officers care for tea, Colonel?"

__

Well, why not? "We would be most grateful, madam."

He signed to dismount, and swung off his horse, looking at his hostess. She was really quite pretty--dark curling hair and big dark eyes in a pale little face. He gave her a bow, and she replied with a smiling curtsey.

"Welcome to Arcadia, gentlemen."

Tavington turned to Bordon. "You and Wilkins with me. Detail the junior officers to supervise the halt. Two hours should suffice." Tavington had another thought, and stopped him. "Wait. Let young McKay join us." Cornet David McKay was the Dragoons' newest and youngest officer, and it seemed to Tavington that he had been particularly hard hit by the realities of war. Not that tea in the company of sympathetic ladies was a cure, but it could be something of a consolation. 

The pleasantly cool house was typical of many in the South, built around a long hall with doors at either end. The girl led them through the entryway, and then left into the library. The house appeared deserted except for the five of them.

"Please make yourselves comfortable, gentlemen. I'll be back with the tea directly." The child turned to leave, when Wilkins stopped her.

"Julia, honey, are you all alone here? Where are the slaves?"

"Gone. Stolen by the--" she lowered her voice to a whisper, "_dirty Rebels_."

Tavington frowned. Misunderstanding his expression, she apologized. "I know I'm not supposed to say dirty Rebels. Lilabet says it's ungenteel. But," she said, looking defiant, "Melly says dirty Rebels, and I've heard Lilabet say dirty Rebels, and once," she added impressively, "she said something worse."

Her guests' expressions evidently satisfied her. "I have to go now, or we'll never have any tea. I'm sure Lilabet and Melly will be back soon." She looked hopefully at Tavington. "Do you like pictures?"

He gave her a slight smile. "I like pictures painted by your father." Julia looked as if life could hold nothing greater.

"You do? You know about Papa?" She dashed over to a table supporting a large folio album. "Then here's his big book. And here," she said running to an easel with a portfolio leaning against it, "are some of the pictures he finished before he got himself wounded and died." She walked backwards toward the door, smiling at Tavington. "I'll get the tea while you're looking and we'll have _cake _with it."

As her footsteps faded down the echoing hall, Tavington felt his officers' eyes on him. He turned, and there was Bordon, warm and kind; McKay, pink with suppressed mirth; and Wilkins, grinning impudently. He gave them a quelling look, and Bordon ventured, "Cake, sir? I am sure we are very obliged to you for your exertions in providing for your subordinates--"

Tavington cut him off, slightly irritated. "That will do." 

Wilkins, unable to take the hint, observed, "She sure did take a shine to you, Colonel. I reckon none of the rest of us would rate _cake_."

"Wilkins."

"Sir," he subsided.

Tavington turned on the fresh-faced cornet. "Do you have an opinion, Mr. McKay?"

The boy choked a little. He was very young, and greatly in awe of his Colonel. "No sir." Then, daringly, he added. "She certainly seems very loyal."

Tavington gave a reluctant laugh, and the others smiled. "That she does." He walked over to the table, and opened the volume. A panther, _Puma concolor_, was vividly depicted, crouching in a cedar as if about to spring. Bordon and McKay looked over his shoulder. Wilkins glanced over from the mantel, where he was examining a finely made Kentucky rifle. 

"It sure does look natural."

"Yes," said Tavington. "Yes, indeed". Leaving Bordon and McKay to look at the book, he strode over to the easel, and began leafing through the watercolours in the portfolio. Plants of all sorts, beautifully delineated in the finest style of horticultural drawing; animals at rest and in life-like action; and surprisingly, a series of charcoals of some attractive young girls, among whom he recognized the pretty features of little Julia. Then there was a sweet-faced, matronly woman. She was pictured sitting at the library desk, idly holding a quill over what appeared to be account books. The late Mrs. Wilde, he assumed. Then more of the young girls: a striking young lady on horseback, proudly straight in her riding habit; Julia and a slightly older girl playing with some puppies. Tavington wryly noted that the puppies and their antics were more carefully drawn than the girls themselves.

The next picture was different still. On it were several likenesses of the same young man, or boy, really, drawn in small full-length, in profile, full-face, and sitting in tall grass, reading a book. The paper was covered with different perspectives of the same lad. At the bottom, in a fine Italian hand. were the words, _Ricardus, filius carissimus_. The next few pictures were all of this same dear son Richard.

"What about the son?" he asked Wilkins. 

Wilkins gave him the blank bovine look that so annoyed him, and then understood. "Richard Wilde? Dead at Brandywine. Nice young fellow. Never thought he'd make a soldier, though. Kind of soft, like his father."

Tavington grunted an acknowledgement, and turned back to the pictures. There was a variety of watercolours of _Nicotiana,_ and a charming study of a mourning dove. He looked moodily away from the pictures, out the window, over the front lawn, at the dragoons walking out the horses. Obviously, the second volume of Wilde's masterwork would never be published, or would be published incomplete.

There was a noise, and a kind of bustle coming from the back of the hall. Hushed voices murmured, and Tavington discerned the high voice of Julia. Another, lower voice, that of a young woman, was approaching.

"Are you sure you will not change and join us, dearest? You ought to greet our guests." An indistinct answer followed, and the young woman spoke again. "Then lie down and get some rest. I'll let you know." Footsteps--two sets of them—ascended the staircase. Little Julia came through the library doorway a moment later, carrying a tea tray with cautious haste. She begged them to be seated and busied herself serving tea to their tastes, bearing Tavington's over to him, eyes shining.

"We have pound cake,' Julia informed them. "Right after everything happened, Lilabet said we'd all feel better after we had some pound cake. Luckily she knows how to make it." 

"What _did _happen?" wondered Wilkins.

"It's a long story," the child answered solemnly. She perched on a chair opposite Tavington, with a company smile. "So, Colonel Tavington, are you married?"

Bordon smiled into his tea. McKay choked on his cake.

"No, I am not," answered Tavington with exquisite gravity.

"Are you engaged or anything?" she persisted.

Tavington cleared his throat and glared at Wilkins' idiotic grinning. "No, Miss Julia, I am neither engaged nor ----anything."

Wilkins never knew when to stop. "Julia, are you setting your cap at the Colonel?"

The child looked at him indignantly. "Of course not. I thought he might do for Lilabet --especially after what happened."

Tavington inquired delicately, "And that was?"

Julia sipped her tea. "Lilabet will tell you. She'll be down directly. She's changing her dress because she doesn't like to look more like a field-hand than absolutely necessary."

"Quite understandable," remarked Bordon, helpfully. 

"Anyway, you should all have more cake. It's the last of it." She clapped her hand over her mouth, nearly upsetting her cup on Bordon. "I wasn't supposed to tell you that. Lilabet said that if I let on that we were running low on food, she'd box my ears."

Tavington could not repress a smile. "Does she box your ears often, then?" 

"Never," Julia admitted. "She just says she will. I've never seen her hit anybody but Charles Crawford, and that was only with his engagement ring, so it couldn't have hurt more than his feelings, and he deserved it anyway."

"Because of what happened?" suggested Cornet McKay.

"That's right," affirmed Julia. "Lilabet says when a man brings all his friends to rob you in the middle of the night, it's a clear sign the engagement is over."

The officers considered this with due decorum.

Wilkins was the first to speak up. "Charles Crawford? Son of Hamish Crawford?"

"That's the one." Julia sniffed, "Melly and I aren't sorry though. We never liked him anyway, because he's two-faced."

Bordon managed, "Just as well that his true nature was revealed before your sister was bound to him in marriage."

"That's what I say," agreed Julia. "I'm not surprised he turned traitor. He was always just as nice as pie to Melly and me, but Lucy Stubblefield told Melly that Charles Crawford told her brother that he was packing Melly and me off to school in Charlestown as soon as he and Lilabet were married. So you see."

Whatever anyone might have said to this last was forgotten as a young woman entered the room. The officers all rose at her arrival, McKay fumbling with his teacup. Tavington recalled that she was in mourning, as he took in the summer-weight black silk gown. She had the same dark eyes and the same dark curling hair as Julia, though that hair in her case was partially covered by a very pretty lace cap. 

She smiled at Wilkins. "Cousin James, how good to see you."

"Cousin Elizabeth," returned Wilkins, "May I present to you Colonel Tavington, Captain Bordon, and Mr. McKay. Gentlemen, my cousin, Miss Wilde."

"Madam," murmured Tavington and Bordon, bowing. McKay, flushing as he looked for a place to set his teacup, bowed a second later.

"Gentlemen." She dropped a graceful curtsey, and Tavington took a moment to study her. Attractive enough: very like a grown-up version of the engaging Julia. A little on the pale side, perhaps, but her delicate features had interest: the big, thickly-lashed dark eyes, a determined chin, and a haughty, high-bridged nose gave her face more character than mere prettiness. She was certainly the horsewoman of her father's sketch, though a few years older.

"We are very obliged to you, Madam," said Tavington, "for the warmth of our welcome here."

"Please be seated, gentlemen. I am sorry I could not greet you earlier," she said, seating herself. "Things have been rather hectic here lately. But I daresay, "she continued with a wary look at Julia, "that my sister has been keeping you entertained."

Julia smiled back guilelessly. "I didn't tell them anything important. I knew you'd want to do that."

Tavington observed, "It appears, Miss Wilde, that you have had a visitation."

Miss Wilde gave a rueful laugh. "I suppose that's one way to put it. Another way is to say that we at last found out the worst about our neighbors. It's all very disheartening."

Wilkins leaned over for another piece of cake. "Julia said they took all the slaves."

"They took all the slaves, and all the horses, and all the rest of the stock. They looted the smokehouse and made a mess of the front lawn. All in all, a night to remember. Or not."

"And yet they did not burn the house, nor did they loot it," Tavington pointed out. "I wonder why."

Miss Wilde shot him a hostile look, which he accepted with equanimity. Little Julia fidgeted in her chair, obviously eager to tell all.

Miss Wilde said coolly, "Perhaps my appeal to their better natures was efficacious? I'm not entirely sure myself."

"Lilabet! Tell them!" Julia wriggled indignantly. She turned to Tavington. "They didn't burn the house because they're deciding who's going to get it. And Lilabet has to marry the winner, or we shall all be put out," she concluded with relish, "like cats."

"Julia, if you cannot hold your tongue, you will have to go to your room. Do you understand?"

Julia nodded, slumping sullenly in her chair.

Miss Wilde continued, with a warning look at her little sister. "That was one possibility discussed that night. Half of them were drunk, so they were hardly fit to make a rational decision. They did seem to feel that since the British would not burn the house with a Loyal family in it, they would wait until you have withdrawn, and then deliver the house to one of their own, by way of reparation, I suppose." She gave a soft sigh of disgust. "The other issue only applies if the lucky party has any interest in me."

Wilkins asked, "So Charles Crawford was with them?"

She sniffed, "Charles Crawford was with them, and he was loud in his representations that Arcadia should be spared. If he still has hopes of me, he's too big a fool to live. And so he may find." Her mouth tightened, and she stared darkly at the floor.

Considering, Tavington looked at her. "Madam, I must ask, even if it pains you—was any violence offered to your person or to your sisters? Were you--insulted--in any way?"

Julia looked ready to burst. Her sister frowned at her and shook her head. "They were neither gentlemen nor gentle men, but it could have been worse."

Julia cried, "But Lilabet! They _swore_ at us! And Melly---!"

Miss Wilde snapped at her, "Julia, be quiet! That's not what the Colonel means!" She beckoned Julia over and put a calming arm around her. Her eyes met Tavington's. "It could have been a lot worse," she said quietly.

Tavington saw young McKay gazing at Miss Wilde with tender sympathy. He recalled that McKay's family, first generation immigrants, had been burned out of their home in North Carolina, and had refugeed south to Charlestown, where McKay had joined the Legion when he turned sixteen. Still, there was no reason to become maudlin about a girl older than himself who had, after all, escaped the worst.

He considered the situation a moment. 

"Nonetheless, Miss Wilde, you and your sisters clearly cannot remain here unprotected. If you will please collect your belongings, we shall take you along with us when the horses are fully rested," he pulled his watch from his pocket and consulted it. "In about two hours—say, one o'clock."

"Two hours!" Miss Wilde stood up, flushing with anger. "You cannot possibly imagine that we are going to leave our family home to those vultures? Why don't we all just surrender right now?" Tavington rose calmly from the sofa, eyes locked with hers. She glared at him resentfully, "I know not how the King's cause may fare, but Arcadia certainly has already lost the war."

Tavington glanced at Julia, who was staring terrified at her sister. Miss Wilde, following his gaze, pulled her sister close. 

"Don't be frightened, darling. We're not going anywhere. This is our home, and the dirty Rebels won't drive us out, even if Colonel Tavington is afraid of them!"

Tavington refused to be angry with an overwrought young woman, and refrained from rolling his eyes.

"Indeed, Madam, I am offering you my protection, not because we fear the Rebels, but because we shall not be _here_ in another two hours. By your own account, sooner or later you will endure another visit. Do you think it will be better—or worse? And how do you think your sisters will enjoy it?" He saw that he had hit her harder with that than he had anticipated. He gave a small, reassuring smile to little Julia, who was looking to him to make everything all right. Miss Wilde stood with eyes cast down, plainly trying to find another solution.

Finally, she sank back into her chair, head in her hands. She made a soft sigh of distress that Tavington found somehow more poignant than a sob. The other officers stood close by, looking at the girl in silent compassion. Julia put her arms around her, her small face hidden in her sister's hair.

Miss Wilde looked up at Tavington, eyes huge and red. "I thank you, sir, for your offer; and it is certain that we must accept it. But," she continued bitterly, "it is plain to me that you have no home of your own, or you could not so blithely bid me leave my own behind."

"You mistake me, Madam, if you think I do not know what it is to lose one's home." Her gaze softened, and swallowing, she nodded in acceptance. He continued more gently, "If you have a wagon, you can take what you can pack in it in the time allotted. I shall detail some of my men to assist you."

"I have a wagon, but no team to draw it."

Tavington paused to think. "Who is your nearest neighbor?"

"The Stubblefields are two miles north. But the Crawfords," she snarled, "are three miles east of here, on this side of the river, and I know they have some of our stock."

"How many men?"

"Very likely none, other than Pengelly, the overseer, and the slaves. Charles, Francis, and their father are apparently chasing about the landscape with their heroic rebel friends. When they were here four nights ago, there was talk of them heading southeast for some sort of meeting with another militia group." Tavington looked significantly at Bordon, who nodded. Miss Wilde narrowed her eyes, "I'd rather you went there. I have no quarrel with the Stubblefields, and they don't have much to begin with. But the Crawfords will certainly have either cart horses or mules enough for a decent team." She added tartly, "especially since some of them are ours."

"Take your troop," Tavington said to Bordon. He frowned, thinking. "And be prudent. If you meet with any resistance, withdraw immediately. Send a message, and we shall set out and deal with them in force. If all goes well, requisition what animals we need, burn the house, tell the slaves they are free to go, and return at once." He smiled winningly at Miss Wilde. "I trust that is satisfactory?"

She smiled back a little uncertainly. Smoothing Julia's hair, she took a deep breath, and nodded. "I shall begin packing immediately. Excuse us." She stopped on her way out of the library, and turned to Bordon. "And if you see a grey mare, fourteen hands high, with a white star, and dark grey markings on the left hindquarter---she's mine!"


	2. Chapter Two: Femina Carolinae

**__**

Disclaimer: I still don't own The Patriot

CHAPTER TWO: _Femina Carolinae _

Tavington decided another cup of tea in the Wildes' pleasant library was in order. Within a few minutes, Miss Wilde had returned and had commandeered Wilkins' strong back to carry down trunks from the attic. 

Amused at Wilkins' indignation, Tavington had declared, "Very proper, Captain, to render your cousin all the assistance in your power." He had felt a little alarmed at Miss Wilde's speculative look, as if she were contemplating what task she might dare to assign him.

Now, with the library to himself, and no reason not to indulge in the luxury of stretching out full-length on the comfortable sofa, he wondered if he had been excessively influenced by a pretty face, or indeed, two pretty faces. He smiled to himself, thinking of the entertaining little Julia. He must get her aside and hear the full story of the rebels' visit, rendered in her amusingly naïve style. Her reserved older sister seemed unwilling to divulge many details. He wondered again if the rebels had gone farther with her than she would admit. Not that it could be in any way her fault. Still, his instincts told him that more had happened than he had been told.

He had surprised himself at his unguardedness in mentioning the loss of his own home. Years ago, of course, but somehow today's events brought it all back: the frantic packing, his mother's anguished indecision as to what to leave and what to take, his own bewilderment. Unwillingly, he wondered if he did get a shameful satisfaction out of seeing others suffer as he had. Firmly thrusting the idea aside, he took the last piece of cake, and savoured it slowly.

Rising lazily, he decided to take pity on Wilkins. He went over to the window and called out to Lovins and Baird to assist Captain Wilkins and Miss Wilde upstairs. Feeling he had done his duty, he strolled back over to the folio album. Surely she would want to take this. Involuntarily, he found himself drawn to the bookcases, considering what he would want to keep in her situation.

He heard the dragoons' heavy tread ascending the staircase. He felt himself well out of it. Turning back to the books, he took in the expected number of books on natural history and philosophy. There was also an impressive collection of literature, ancient and modern, a great deal of poetry, and not a few collections of letters. Two full rows of legal tomes, he noted, and some well-bound novels. An obviously much-loved copy of Dr. Johnson's dictionary. 

Miss Wilde walked into the room, Baird behind her. He carried a moderately large wooden crate and she, a quilt.

"Excuse me, Colonel," said Miss Wilde briskly. "I need to pack up what I can of our library." She paused before the shelves, and looked from them to the crate, obviously wondering how to make the contents of one fit into the other. It was plainly not going to happen. She sighed, and turned to Baird. "Please, Mr. Baird, wrap up the large book on that table in this quilt. Very carefully, I pray you. The book was my father's and very precious to us."

Baird busied himself with spreading the quilt on the floor and wrapping up the volume. Miss Wilde came to stand beside Tavington, pensively regarding the bookcases. She bit her lip, and then turned to speak to Baird.

"When you are done, please take it and that large black portfolio out to the carriage house. Just leave it beside the wagon, and I'll decide how to pack it all later. " She turned again to the bookcase. "One hardly knows where to begin," she murmured, half to herself.

Tavington pulled out the copy of the _Dictionary. "_I would advise you to take what you like best, not what you think you ought to bring."

"Very wise of you, Colonel. I certainly wasn't planning on transporting the family law library. Or Archbishop Tillotson's_ Sermons_." She began to quickly sort through the books, laying some on the floor by the crate.

"I'm shocked," Tavington said primly. "Shocked. What about_ Fox's Book of Martyrs_?"

"A good thought. Julia adores the gruesome bits." She placed the volume on the growing stack and then began sorting through the novels. "_Pamela, Tristram Shandy, the Vicar of Wakefield, Rasselas…."_

"You're leaving _Clarissa_?" asked Tavington, eyebrows raised.

"With pleasure. I loathe that book." 

Tavington smirked.

"Well, I do," she huffed, placing another few books on the stack. "Clarissa Harlowe is the stupidest women in English literature. She runs away with a man whom she knows to be wicked, and then is terribly surprised when he behaves wickedly. What a fool."

Tavington could not resist. "Miss Wilde, you don't know me at all, and yet you will be travelling with me in less than two hours. What would the _literati _say of you?"

She glared at him. "Apples and oranges, Colonel. Would you be so good as to hand me the Dryden and the Spenser on the top shelf? I am travelling with you as you represent the King's authority under this roof. Are you unworthy of his trust?" She laid the books down, and then sat on the floor by the crate, tentatively beginning to arrange the volumes in the most compact way. "And I think I could manage Mr. Gray as well. To your left. Thank you."

"_The paths of glory lead but to the grave_, Miss Wilde?"

"All paths lead to the grave, Colonel."

"Yes, I believe that was Gray's point."

"Actually, my thoughts were more in the vein of _Where ignorance is bliss, 'tis folly to be wise_."

Tavington smiled, and looked over the shelves. "Surely you don't mean to leave this behind," he said, displaying the cover of Sidney's _Arcadia_.

She looked up at him, hurt, and Tavington felt a little ashamed. "You are unkind, sir. Do not forget to wave _Paradise Lost_ in front of me as well. But you are right, of course." She reached up for the Sidney.

"And Mr. Milton is the red morocco further down. Yes, that's it. It is a very fine edition. And Mr. Pope's _Iliad_." She smiled fondly.

Working together, they quickly filled the crate. Miss Wilde rose and looked unhappily at the remaining books. "You know, Colonel, if you or your officers see anything here you care for, I would much rather you all had them, than my treacherous neighbors and their new best friends."

"That is most generous."

"Not at all." 

Baird had come back, and Miss Wilde directed him to take the crate out to the carriage house. He looked askance at it, and went for help. When he had gone, Miss Wilde turned again to Tavington. 

"My cousin James is helping Julia pack her toys and books from the nursery. I thought that would suit him better than this. I also asked him to collect my father's weapons. He owned a very beautiful set of pistols I must show you when we are at leisure."

He accompanied her into the hall, and was surprised to see a young boy leaning wearily against the wall. No one had said anything about a boy living here. He looked again, and saw it was not a boy, but a pretty young girl of thirteen or fourteen, dressed in a boy's shabby breeches, shirt, and waistcoat. Obviously, the sister he had not yet met, by her dark eyes, though these were accompanied by light brown hair, rather than dark.

Miss Wilde introduced them. "Colonel, my sister, Amelia Wilde. Melly, this is Colonel Tavington of the Green Dragoons." She gave Tavington a hard look, daring him to say anything about her sister's appearance. He bowed to the girl, and she gave a curtsey, at odds with her costume. She murmured an unintelligible greeting, her eyes averted from him.

Amelia whispered to her sister, "I've packed all the food that's left. What do you want to do about the wine and spirits?" Lovins, passing through the hall with a heavy load, looked hopefully at his Colonel. Tavington cleared his throat.

"I would advise you, Miss Wilde, to take a few bottles along for medicinal purposes." He smiled, "Perhaps you would not begrudge my officers and men the rest." 

He received a knowing look in reply. Miss Wilde turned to her sister. "There is a crate in the dining room. Pack the silver candlesticks, and gather Mother's tea set and wipe it. The officers were using it in the library. Bring the silver chest as well--and the box of candles. We won't have room for anything else. Then," she said, touching her sister's shoulder gently, "you must pack your trunk. Please be sensible. And help Julia with hers. I'll be up to look at them shortly."

She gave Tavington a crooked smile. "To the cellar, then, Colonel?" He followed and stopped behind her as she looked into the front parlor. He gestured at a fine grand pianoforte.

"I imagine you'll be sorry to leave that."

"We won't be entirely bereft musically. There is a small square instrument in the nursery I asked Cousin James to have loaded. The legs unbolt, so it should fit in the wagon quite well. I'll put the music we're taking in Julia's trunk. She'll have the most room."

Tavington noticed a very beautiful portrait above the mantel. He approached to look at it more closely. From the previous sketch, he gathered it was Mrs. Wilde. She was depicted before an exotic background of native plants and animals. He had never seen a portrait like it. The woman seemed as much a part of the natural world as everything else in the picture.

"Your father painted this, I presume? It is very much in his style."

Miss Wilde actually laughed. "Indeed it is. We told him he should submit it along with his other pictures for the next volume, and name it _Femina Carolinae. _You know my father's work, then?"

"I first saw his book in London—years ago, now. A friend owned it and had it open at the drawing of the live oak. It is a very powerful picture: ancient, garlanded with moss, unlike any tree I had ever seen. It represented all the lure of distant lands to me."

"Is that why you are in Carolina?"

"Madam, I am in Carolina to serve the King. It's an ugly business, doing one's duty, but just occasionally, it's a real pleasure." 

They smiled at each other for a long moment, and Miss Wilde blushed and dropped her eyes.

"Of course I must keep it. When we are finished in the cellar, I'll tell one of your men to take it down and wrap it."

They proceeded on to the kitchen, and downstairs to the cellar. Tavington was impressed. 

"A great deal of this was put down before I was born," Miss Wilde told him. "As you see, there is far more than we can dream of taking." She picked up a crate and began filling it. A good brandy, a few bottles of very good claret, some port, and—

"Rum, Miss Wilde?"

"It's very good for cleaning wounds. Which reminds me that I mustn't forget the medicine chest. There, that's all, I think." She started to lift the crate, but Tavington forestalled her, and carried it upstairs for her.

"Thank you. I'll tell one of your men to take it out. Please make free with the rest. I really must change and see to my trunk." She hastened away with a rustle of silk, and Tavington returned downstairs to contemplate his find. He pulled out a brandy and a claret for himself and decided to turn the rest over to Sergeant Cameron, after the officers had a chance at it.

Once upstairs, he came down the hall to see Lovins and Baird with the body of a small pianoforte between them, and Wilkins following them, carrying the legs. Julia hopped down the stairs after them, and then seeing Tavington, skipped over to him.

"Hello, Miss Julia. Have you already finished packing?"

"Well, _I'm_ done, but my packing isn't. Melly said I was doing it wrong. Then Lilabet came upstairs and told Melly she was doing _hers_ wrong. It is a little tense up there now, so I thought I'd come downstairs and help you."

"Thank you. I was just going to the library to choose some books. You could help me carry them out to my horse."

In the library, ostensibly studying the books, Tavington considered how best to approach the child for information.

"Has your sister Amelia always worn boy's clothes?" 

"Doesn't she look peculiar? No, only since last Friday. That was the day after the _dirty rebels_ came. She says she doesn't want to be a girl anymore. She put on some of Richard's old clothes, and now Lilabet can't get her to change."

"It must have been a terrible time for all of you. Did something particularly shocking happen to Miss Amelia?"

"Shocking? I guess I'd say that. Those men, those _dirty _men came riding up to our house, and I knew right away that it was different than anybody else ever coming here. Some of them were the sort of men who always came to the back door before to ask for things. But now they acted like they owned everything. They had chains with them, and started shackling all the slaves. I wanted to run and hide with Keziah (she's my friend), but Lilabet said it would be worse if we hid and they found us. And they did find Keziah under her cabin, and they dragged her out, and I think they hurt her arm."

Julia fidgeted in her chair. "And so there we were, all three of us, standing on the front porch, and those men were running around and grabbing slaves and driving off the horses and cattle. It was confusing. And this man who was leading them came up on the porch to talk to Lilabet, but I could see that she didn't matter to him. And then he saw me, and knelt down and held my shoulders and told me not to be scared, like he was my _friend_." At this, Julia made such a face that Tavington couldn't help laughing. 

Julia scowled at him. "Well, I'm not stupid, you know. I may be ten, but I'm not stupid." She kicked her legs back against the chair. "Not stupid," she repeated.

Tavington came over and gently laid his hand on the curly dark hair. "I can see you are not. What then?"

Julia jumped up and pulled him over to the sofa with her. She lowered her voice to a whisper. "Some men came up and started talking about Lilabet and how pretty she was, and they started touching her. And then that Charles Crawford ran over and put his arm around her, and told them to stay away because she was promised to him. I thought Lilabet would slap him, but she didn't. She was really quiet. And then one man came up to Melly and asked 'And how about you, Missy? You promised to someone?' And Lilabet cried, 'She's only fourteen!' and tried to go to Melly, but Charles Crawford held on to her. And that horrible man said, 'Old enough,' and he grabbed Melly and kissed her right on the mouth."

Julia huddled against Tavington's shoulder, and to his own surprise, he put a comforting arm around her. 

"And then I guess Melly bit him, because he yelled and shoved her away, and then he hit her with his fist so hard, he knocked her off the porch." Julia looked up at him, tears glistening on her lashes. "Lilabet got away from Charles Crawford, and we ran over to Melly and held her where she lay on the ground. And then that rebel Colonel made the men get back and leave us alone. Charles Crawford stood there beside us, but Lilabet wouldn't look at him. We heard them talking back and forth about whether to burn the house or not, but then they decided that if you British went away, it would be nice to have the house to give to someone you'd burned out. And Charles Crawford asked them not to loot the house yet, because he and Lilabet were going to get married and he wanted time to pick out what to keep, and they could have the rest then. And it looked he and that rebel Colonel were real good friends, so they said maybe they'd let us stay if Charles Crawford married Lilabet. So they decided just to take the slaves and livestock and share them out. They got on their horses and Charles Crawford looked back at Lilabet and she said, 'Be sure to get your share of the loot. I know your family will be proud to have stolen things.' And then he was riding away with them, and she took off his ring and threw it at him, and she yelled at him, 'And don't forget _this_, _traitor_!'"

They sat together for a little while, and Tavington drew a deep breath. "I am very sorry this happened to you—to all of you. But you are safe now. You will come away with us to Fort Carolina, and no one will dare bother you there." Julia looked up at him. He took out his handkerchief and wiped her face. "I _will_ protect you. You have my word of honour as an officer."

"You know what, Colonel? We found that engagement ring the next day, and the next time we go to Charlestown, Lilabet is going to sell it, and we will all buy something we really like with the money!"

He smiled and kissed the top of her head. "What an excellent notion." He rose and offered her his hand. "And now you must help me finish choosing my books!"

In the end, he found some wonderful things. The Misses Wilde, he decided, read French but not Latin, because the untranslated classics were untouched. He found a _Georgics_, a beautiful Catullus, and smiled slyly as he pulled out a rare copy of Petronius' _Satyricon. _He much doubted that the innocent young ladies had a clue what _that_ was. He decided he could fit one more volume, and opted for a collection of Marlowe's plays. 

Stacking the books in Julia's willing arms, and picking up his bottles, he strolled out into the sun. He saw dark smoke rising to the east, and smiled grimly. The patrol was not yet returned, so he took his time inspecting the state of the remaining dragoons. Julia was entranced with everything and full of artless questions. He decided not to mention the cellar and library to anyone until Bordon was back, and could have first choice. 

Miss Wilde came out of the house, dressed in a black riding habit appropriate for travelling. She looked more than a little irritated as she stalked to the carriage house, talking in a agitated manner to Wilkins. Tavington eased out of sight behind a horse, and saw that Julia had done the same. They both laughed.

"Lilabet really is very nice, but she gets cross sometimes since Mamma died. Even when Mamma had to stay in bed all day, she could still help Lilabet and tell her how things were done, and talk to her. I think Lilabet misses her. I know I do. She was lovely." Julia stoked the horse's soft muzzle and looked up at Tavington. "Do you still have your mother?"

"No, Miss Julia, my mother died many years ago, but I still think about her." He heard the sound of horses approaching. "That should be the patrol returning. Off you go now. See if you can help your sister in the carriage house."

Julia trotted away obediently, and Tavington looked for Bordon at the head of the dragoons. A glance told him that the raid had been a success, by the large number of horses tethered behind. Some very fine mounts were among them, he noted appreciatively; but he did not see Miss Wilde's grey mare.

Bordon reined in and dismounted.

"Good hunting, I take it, Captain?"

"Indeed, sir. The overseer did not dare offer resistance. The slaves were somewhat bewildered, but I directed them to take the Camden road, where they can be sure of safety. Some of them wanted to follow us back here, but I explained that the Wildes were leaving and that we would catch them up anyway. We'll undoubtedly come across them when we finish here and head home. Otherwise, such a large party of slaves would be a prize for the locals."

"Very well. Breathe and water your mounts. You have forty-five minutes to get some rest. Have Sergeant Davies take a team of horses to the carriage house, where Miss Wilde is loading the wagon." Bordon bowed, and turned away to obey. "Oh—and Bordon?"

"Sir?"

"Miss Wilde has permitted us to take what we wish of her library and cellar. I advise you and the other officers to avail yourself immediately. When you are finished, have Sergeant Cameron distribute the rest to the men. With strict orders not to touch it until we have returned to the fort, you understand?"

Bordon smiled, "Indeed, sir."


	3. Chapter Three: The Last Thing in the Lib...

**__**

Disclaimer: I don't own The Patriot, but it rather owns me at the moment. 

****

CHAPTER THREE: The Last Thing in the Library

It was almost one o'clock, and Tavington wondered how Miss Wilde and her assistants were progressing. Too curious to hear it secondhand, he made his way to the carriage house, and nearly ran into Miss Wilde coming out.

"Colonel Tavington. Good," were Miss Wilde's first flustered words. Composing herself, she began again, rather cautiously. "I wonder, Colonel, if I might ask a favour of you. Would you return with me to the house?"

"As you wish."

They ascended the steps together and she dropped her voice, "There is one last thing in the library that I need, but I wanted to have the assistance of someone who could promise me discretion as a gentleman."

"Madam, your cousin, Captain Wilkins---"

"Just so. He is my cousin and this is something that I do not want spread all around the family connections."

His curiosity aroused in the highest degree, Tavington followed her into the plundered library.

"Please help me move the hearthstone." Tavington's face showed his puzzlement. She explained impatiently, "There is a counterweight, but it is difficult for me to operate, and impossible for me to retrieve what lies beneath."

Here was a mystery! Tavington strode to the fireplace and pressed firmly against the mantel at the spot indicated. The granite slab moved reluctantly, and revealed a hiding place roughly two feet square beneath it, holding a locked wooden chest. 

Miss Wilde looked about for any witnesses, then gestured peremptorily at him to remove the chest. 

He manhandled the surprisingly heavy object out. The contents shifted, and he heard the audible clink of metal inside. He looked a question at Miss Wilde, eyebrows raised.

"Yes, there is some money in it. Also quite important documents. Don't look at me like that: they have nothing to do with this war or any other war. They have to do with my family and are no one else's business. Give me your word, your sacred word of honour, that you will never mention the existence of this chest, its contents, or its hiding place to another soul."

"You have my word, madam. " He eyed the chest with a certain distaste. "I take it you wish me to convey this chest out to the wagon myself?"

"Yes, of course. First, though, I need you to move the hearthstone back into place."

Thinking words he would never utter before her, he accomplished that with some trouble; then hefted the chest up into his arms. As he strode from the room, he gritted out, "Would you be so good as to open the _door_?"

Miss Wilde had had the foresight to reserve a place in the wagon nearly large enough for her mysterious chest. Luckily only Sergeant Davies was about, harnessing the team, and he watched his Colonel being harassed by Miss Wilde's importunate demands with more veiled amusement than curiosity. Tavington examined the laden wagon and shrugged. It would certainly slow them down, but so too would the Crawford slaves they would encounter. It couldn't be helped.

He considered the young woman beside him.

"Miss Wilde, do you know how to drive a team?"

"Yes, of course. One has to master all sorts of skills in an isolated place like this." Comprehending him, and displeased, she drew a deep breath. "I had hoped you would allow me to ride one of the animals from the Crawfords' place."

"Your wagon, Miss Wilde. Your belongings, your sisters. I hardly think it unreasonable to expect you to look after them. Even had you proved incapable of driving the team, I still would have wanted you in the wagon, caring for the children. Your ability simply frees a dragoon to do his first duty." She sighed in submission.

"And, Miss Wilde, we will have to spend a night encamped on the way to Camden. Have Baird and Lovins bring out a featherbed so you and your sisters will have something other than the ground to sleep upon." She nodded and went to look for them. He called after her. "And please collect your sisters. We are moving out as soon as possible. It would unfortunate to have to leave them behind." She looked back at him, incredulous and indignant, and hurried away.

Within minutes she was back, supervising Baird and Lovins as they shoehorned the featherbed on top of the other belongings and under the canvas covering. The girls emerged from the house, carrying pillows and a few assorted bags.

Tavington was preparing to mount, when he saw Miss Wilde coming toward him with a glint in her eye. He nearly groaned aloud in exasperation, and went to meet her.

"Miss Wilde, it is time to go. Can this not wait?"

She stepped under the shade of the nearest tree and Tavington joined her. She regarded him warily.

"There is a matter than concerns the slaves you confiscated from the Crawford place." Tavington was sure he knew what would follow, and braced himself.

"Some of the slaves were our property, stolen by the rebels. I hope there will be no difficulty in reclaiming them."

"Miss Wilde," he began levelly, "whatever individuals were liberated from the rebels were in the possession of the rebels, and thus our legitimate spoils of war." She looked up at him, her eyes beginning to blaze. Gazing back stonily at her, he continued, "Captain Bordon, under standing orders, has offered those slaves the promise of freedom if they wish to serve the King. Do not interrupt me, Madam," he said, stifling her protests. 

"I have shown you every consideration since I arrived, Miss Wilde. I have given you the assistance of men who worked when they could have rested, and sent others of my men into possible danger so you would not have to refugee to Camden riding pillion behind a dragoon with only the clothes on your back." He stepped closer to her. She flinched slightly, but stood her ground. He looked down at her grimly.

"But _never_ ask me to make a liar of one of my officers. You appealed to me before as a man of honour. Honour, I think you will find, is a double-edged sword."

She looked up at him, eyes wide. _She is trying very hard not to tremble, poor thing,_ he thought.

"I am not afraid of you," she said defiantly.

He leaned over, lips almost brushing her ear, and whispered. "Then you are a very silly girl." He stepped back, looking her over. She looked back mutinously, pressed against the tree, breathing heavily. 

"The subject is closed, Madam. Get in your wagon. Take the place that Sergeant Davies assigns you, and do as you are told. If you ride with the Green Dragoons, you ride under my command: and I do not tolerate insubordination."


	4. Chapter Four: The Scent of Rosewater in ...

_Disclaimer: I do not and will never own any of the rights to The Patriot _ CHAPTER FOUR: The Scent of Rosewater in the Night 

Heading toward Camden with Miss Wilde and her sisters, and over one hundred former slaves of all ages and both genders in his wake, Tavington began to feel all too much like Moses in the Wilderness. He was uneasy having such a large party of non-combatants to protect, and took special care of the encampment that night. He only hoped his charges would not wander away in the dark and be shot by his own pickets.

Alert as always, he noticed the Dragoons looking surreptitiously at him: he was unsure just why. From the corner of his eye, he could see Bordon's pleased look, and Wilkins' shocked amazement. His own face expressionless, he looked over his men and discerned repressed grins on many of the war-hardened faces. 

It occurred to him at last that his quarrel under the tree with the fair Miss Wilde might have been interpreted by those who saw but did not hear as a _tender scene_. His whisper in her ear might have looked like a kiss; her angry response like passion. It was too absurd to deny, and too embarrassing for a proud man even to acknowledge. Passing the innocent McKay he growled, and was cheered at the panicked response.

Seated on a fallen log near a fire, he stared introspectively into the flames, and tried not to taste his rations. They would have actual food tomorrow at Fort Carolina. In the meantime, he would have to subsist on the memory of Miss Wilde's pound cake. Spoiled and demanding as she was, she had her merits. Perhaps he should have invited her to join the officers for dinner. _Cornpone and maggoty dried beef? There's an_ _invitation no woman could resist. _Perhaps he should be check on the ladies to see if they were comfortable and secure. _And lying on the dirty ground, with only the sky for roof_. Perhaps Miss Wilde would have a few choice words for him. _Now that's very likely. Would I prefer to sit here and wonder, or go find her and hear them for myself?_

Rising instantly, he made his way toward the canvas-covered wagon and the fire near it. He saw a sleeping Wilkins wrapped in a blanket close by. Miss Wilde was washing Julia's face with a handkerchief. Someone had already taken out the featherbed, and it was neatly and incongruously made up with a quilt and three fat pillows. Amelia was resealing the water cask on the wagon's side, and started at the sight of him. She touched her elder sister's shoulder.

"What is it, Melly?" Miss Wilde caught sight of Tavington, lit by the dying fire's last flickers. "Oh, Colonel Tavington." She took in a breath to speak, and let it out again. 

"I just wanted to see if you and your sisters were all right," he said quietly. She gave a sweet, ironic smile and finally, a nod.

"Yes, we're really quite all right, except for leaving our family home and most of our possessions, and wondering what shall become of us, and where we shall live, and my arms feeling as if they could drop off from all the driving---but I _will_ stop complaining now because, really, we are all right. Really." She gave another, firmer nod, and caught Tavington's eye, and laughed.

Julia looked exhausted, but she caught her sister's spirited mood, and told him with smothered excitement, "We're going to sleep outside right here with all our clothes on!"

Amelia seemed mortified, and Tavington barely heard her whisper to Julia, "Don't talk to a man about sleeping and clothes!"

"What? Should I talk about no clothes?"

"Hush, Julia!" Miss Wilde softly admonished her. "People are trying to settle down to rest, and so should you. I want you and Melly to get under the quilt and try to sleep."

"I can't sleep! This is so exciting!"

"Try anyway." Miss Wilde lifted a corner of the quilt and motioned to Julia to lie down. Gamely, Julia took off her shoes and crawled to the middle of the featherbed. Melly hung back, whispering in Miss Wilde's ear. 

Miss Wilde sighed, nodded, and walked over to Tavington. "How long will the journey be tomorrow, Colonel?" she asked softly, leading him away from the wagon.

"Not more than half a day." He frowned. "Surely you already knew that?"

"I needed to walk you away from the wagon. Melly was too bashful to lie down in front of you. She's—not comfortable with men." Miss Wilde blew out a breath and looked up at the stars. "There's Lyra. I love constellations that look like their names. And Delphinus," she pointed east.

"You are an astronomer, Miss Wilde."

"Just a watcher of the sky." Her head was tilted back, face pale in the dim light. "When I was a little girl, my father taught me the name of every star and every flower, every tree and every bird. He loved the natural world so much, and wanted everyone else to love it too."

"You must have loved your father very much." She was very near. The soft night breeze carried the light scent of the rosewater she used to rinse her hair. 

She said nothing in response. Puzzled, he tried to make out her expression, and it appeared more thoughtful than anything else. _Oh, well_ _done, Will_, he thought. _Such a way you have with the ladies_. 

He tried again. "I've always admired your father. It must have been exceedingly difficult to observe his subjects and pursue his art, and still raise a family and manage your extensive plantation."

"Hmm," she smiled sadly, and then gave him a peculiar look. "My father--" she began, and stopped. To his surprise, her lips curled sardonically, and she gave a little laugh.

"My father was a naturalist, an artist, a man of science," she said carefully, testing her words. "He could be all of those things because my mother made it possible for him."

"I don't understand."

She bit her lip. "My father was a naturalist, an artist, a man of science," she repeated. "He was also a negligent farmer, an incompetent businessman, a careless husband, and a partial and unkind parent." She gave a long sigh. "There. I've said it. You mustn't imagine, Colonel, that I've ever said this to anyone else." She looked up at the sky again. "I don't know why I'm confiding in you. Perhaps the extraordinary events of the past few days have made a revolution in me."

He rolled his eyes. "I trust not, Miss Wilde. I have all the revolutions I can handle already."

She laughed softly, and took his arm. "I must sound a dreadful harpy. I think what I'm trying to say is that my mother deserves a great deal of credit. It was she who was the planter, the businesswoman, the firm and loving head of our family. She kept the estate, the family-- our whole little world--running smoothly; while my father painted, went on his expeditions, and traveled at will to London to see his engraver and publisher. I can't bear that she be forgotten or even discounted."

He laid his free hand on Miss Wilde's. "Surely that will never happen, Miss Wilde, while you live."

"Perhaps I should write a book about her."

"Perhaps you should. And entitle it, _The Adventures of Femina Carolinae, by her daughter_."

She smiled, more at peace now, and looked back toward her sisters, now angelically at rest under the quilt. "But first things first. I have my sisters to care and provide for, before I start performing any literary feats."

"To that end, you must get some rest. And so must I," he said, walking her toward her wagon. "Do you have any place to stay in Camden?"

"Yes," she began hesitantly. "We have kin in Camden. I have been deciding whom I could best approach." She wrinkled her nose. "Our most likely shelter is with an elderly great-aunt, who is not exactly…."

Julia at that moment sat straight up and declared, "We are not staying with Aunt Sarah Jane Minerva, and that's final!" She flopped back on the featherbed, and pulled the quilt over her face.

Amelia murmured a protest. Miss Wilde disengaged her arm from Tavington's with an unamused glance at Julia's quilt-covered body. 

"Good night, Colonel."

"Miss Wilde." He was reluctant to leave, but could find no excuse to linger. Miss Wilde was sitting on a campstool, tugging at her boots, when Julia popped back out from under the quilt.

"We can't stay with her!" She sat up, and told Tavington earnestly, "She's the meanest old lady on the face of the earth. Her house always smells peculiar and she's always making fringe, and she has that picture!"

"Julia, hush! Beggars can't be choosers. Camden will be crowded with refugees. Even if it weren't improper, it would be impossible for us to find lodgings there by ourselves. Cousin Mary Montgomery doesn't even have room for her own children, and that leaves Aunt Sarah Jane Minerva. Now go back to sleep. Colonel Tavington doesn't want to hear gossip about our family."

Julia appealed to him. "Colonel, don't go! Aunt Sarah Jane Minerva will be miserable to us! She says spiteful things to Lilabet about being an old maid, and she makes Melly play the pianoforte in front of strangers, and she'll make me look at that picture again!" She hissed at Wilkins. "Cousin James, Cousin James! Wake up and tell Colonel Tavington about Aunt Sarah Jane Minerva's picture. Isn't it the worst thing in the world?"

Wilkins thrashed about in his blanket and stared wild-eyed at Julia. "What's wrong?" he croaked.

Miss Wilde quickly knelt on the featherbed and pushed Julia down bodily. "Shame on you! There's no reason to wake Cousin James! I'm sorry, Colonel. All this strain is finally telling on her."

Julia wriggled rebelliously, and refused to be quiet. "It's the worst thing in the world. Isn't that right?"

Wilkins moaned sleepily, "Oh, Julia, honey, don't make me think about Aunt Sarah Jane Minerva's picture. We'll all dream about it now." He burrowed down into his blanket and covered his ears. "'Night, Colonel."

"It's a picture of a _skinned dog_! What kind of person would have a picture like that and make a little girl look at it? I ask you." She began shaking uncontrollably. Kneeling next to Miss Wilde, Tavington took Julia's hand in his.

"Julia, stop this now!" his voice was soft but stern. "I am ordering you to settle down and let everyone sleep." The child looked beseechingly at him. "Go to sleep," he repeated. "We can talk about this when you're safe in Camden."

"Will you call on us there?" Julia pleaded. Miss Wilde blushed and shook her head at Julia, but Tavington reassured her. 

"It would be an honour."

"She'll be mean to you too."

"I shall be fully armed."

Julia smiled at that, and nestled back against her pillow. Miss Wilde looked her thanks at Tavington. She knelt, bootless, on the quilt and gave a long tired sigh. He reached out to touch her shoulder, but remembered himself; and with a curt nod, bade the ladies goodnight.

"

  


"


	5. Chapter Five: Of Arms and the Man I Sing

**__**

Disclaimer: I would never be such a fibber as to claim I own the rights to The Patriot

Author's note: There is a moment of gory violence in this chapter, but I stand by my rating, using the _Lord of the Rings_ defense. Tavington doesn't do anything worse than Aragorn does, and those films are rated PG-13. Thank you to all my kind reviewers, especially Zubeneschamali-I love astronomical names! ****

CHAPTER FIVE: Of Arms and the Man I Sing

Tavington opened his eyes reluctantly to the grey light before dawn. There was little movement in the camp: he could distinctly hear the liquid sound of the nearby stream, and he lay still a moment, listening to the bird song. Eventually he would have to get up, and have his dragoons pull this ragged horde together for the march.

Standing in the shallow streambed, cleaning himself up, he saw a few of the slave women getting water for washing and cooking. At least someone was making an effort. He wondered if some of the women were the former property of Miss Wilde. He had no desire to quarrel with her today, so he hoped the women would have the sense to avoid her and the inevitable confrontations that would follow a meeting

Before the sun cleared the horizon, he had given orders to Bordon and Wilkins to have the dragoons and their charges on the move within the hour. He felt a growing unease about their vulnerable situation and the large numbers of straggling civilians wandering about the camp. He had managed to stay alive this long by trusting his instincts. Pausing on his way to his horse, he stared into the shadows of the trees to the west.

There! A flash in the brush that could only be sunlight on metal. He caught Bordon's eye and spoke in a hushed tone. "Call the men to arms, but do so quietly. Our rebel friends don't know they've been spotted. Are our pickets asleep?" 

He called to Lieutenant Monroe, a few yards away. Dropping his voice, he ordered, "Get the Negroes and take them to the streambed. Tell them to lie flat and stay there until this is over. They're less likely to get in our way or be shot at if they're not running around." At that moment, he heard one, then two popping noises to the south.

He glanced over his shoulder to where he knew the wagon must be. He pictured the three girls asleep on their ridiculous featherbed, and hoped they would have the sense to crawl under their wagon. Never had he imagined having women on his hands at such a time.

Grey smoke puffed out of the woods, and a split second later he heard the report of a musket. "Fire at the smoke," he roared. Then a hell of gunfire erupted. 

Monroe was shouting at the slaves and herding them past. There were panicked cries, but for the most part they were in the habit of obedience, and were making for the stream. The dragoons had taken cover behind horses and trees, or were prone on the ground with their weapons. Dense smoke filled the air, and Tavington feared it would soon be impossible to see where the shots were coming from. A horse screamed appallingly, and fell with a shuddering crash.

Hoofbeats were fast approaching. To the south, between the trees, he saw a group of riders, half-hidden in the smoke. He made a dash for his pistols, and looked for a clear shot.

David McKay ran right in front of him, nearly taking a bullet in the back of his head. "Move aside, Mr. McKay," Tavington shouted, "and clear my line of fire." McKay whirled and saw the pistol pointed at him. Frightfully startled, the boy jumped behind a horse and used the saddle to support his own pistol for better aim.

Tavington took a rough count of the horsemen. Ten, no—twelve riders. They must be mad to attack a force so superior. They were firing wildly as they galloped, wasting their shots. _Amateurs_, he thought contemptuously. He had no clear idea how many muskets were in the trees to the west, but it was already too smoky for them to do any but accidental harm. Aiming the heavy pistol with great care, he squeezed the trigger and gave a grunt of satisfaction as his target flew backwards off his mount. The riders were fifty feet away, then thirty, and Tavington fired his second pistol at the same moment that McKay fired his. A rider whooped and fell, twisting, to the ground. _Well, one of us got him._ Then he drew his sabre, and the enemy was upon them.

With a two handed grip, he swung his sword at a passing rider, unhorsing him and slashing the animal across the withers. He dodged the horse's struggles and plunged his weapon with a practiced hand into the man's kidneys. _That's a kill_.

He straightened and looked around. The muskets to the west were silent, useless now for fear of hitting their own men. A few rebels were still mounted, slashing desperately at the remorseless hands dragging them down. From their shouts, it was apparent that they had not known what they were getting into. _They probably thought Bordon and his patrol were all there were of us, and didn't scout properly. Amateurs, _h_e_ thought again.

The four riders left were trying to hack their way directly through the dragoons, probably hoping to get to the shallow stream and escape across it to the east. One rider fell from his horse, sword in hand, and stumbled away, running low.

"Kill that bastard!" he heard Bordon bellow. Tavington ran after the enemy, losing sight of the dismounted man in the gunsmoke. Passing a knot of dragoons neatly dispatching a pair of the rebels, he decided they were doing fine on their own and ran on.

A thin shriek, shriller than a bird, cut above the curses, shouted commands, and clash of metal on metal.

__

Julia. He heard the shriek redoubled and seconded with a woman's wild, frightened cry.

Tavington sped on, leaping over a dead horse, and evading a cooking fire. Roughly shoving past a pair of men locked together in combat, he nearly tripped as he came up to the wagon and saw what lay before him.

Miss Wilde had indeed had the sense to get under the wagon with her sisters, but the unhorsed rebel, in his panic, was trying to crawl under the wagon and join them. A pistol shot sounded, and the man jerked, twitched, and was still. Julia dashed out from under the wagon's opposite side as Miss Wilde tried desperately to pull her back with her, and they fell together, nearly underneath the pounding hooves of one of the mounted rebel's horses.

Tavington went after the rebel with all the fury he possessed. Reaching up and savagely yanking at the man's jacket, he toppled him from his horse. The man fell with a howl of pain, and tripped over Julia and Miss Wilde, huddled at his feet. Grabbing Miss Wilde by her long hair, he pulled her up in front of him, shielding himself from Tavington's sword, his back to the wagon.

The other dragoons pressed forward, but Tavington shouted them back. "No, he's mine." Coming closer, he gave the man a wolfish grin, and snarled softly, "You idiot. It's not going to save you." He tried not to look at Miss Wilde's eyes, black and enormous with shock. He heard Julia whimpering to one side, and the sounds of Amelia crawling out from under the wagon to look. 

Reflecting only a moment on his options, he shifted his grip on the sword hilt, and quicker than the man could follow, plunged his point above Miss Wilde's shoulder and directly into the man's eye.

Miss Wilde's gasp of disbelief was drowned out by the wounded man's keening wail of agony. She stumbled to the ground, reaching out desperately to pull Julia close. The rebel fell to his knees, clutching his face. Tavington pulled his sabre free from the eye socket with difficulty, and grasping the hilt with both hands, swung the blade with all his strength, decapitating the man in mid-scream.

The head flew past the horse and was kicked aside by another, skittering out of sight. The headless trunk, pumping spurts of blood from the dying heart, collapsed across Miss Wilde's legs, pinning her to the ground.

"Off! Off! Get off of me!" Miss Wilde punctuated each cry with a shove with one hand, while with the other hand she tried to cover Julia's wide, wide eyes. The child struggled out of her grasp, and scrambled away from the gory sight before her.

Tavington kicked the dead man away, and pulled Miss Wilde up with his left arm in one lithe movement. Holding her fast against him for a long moment, he looked into dazed, dark eyes. After a moment, she swallowed and shut her eyes, and dropped her forehead against his shoulder. He held her a little longer, feeling her heart beating wildly against his own, feeling the soft warmth pressed trustingly to his body, feeling her. He looked up and took in the situation.

The last of the rebel riders was down, dead in the sparkling streambed, where the slaves had pulled him from his horse and savaged him before Monroe and two other dragoons could get there and finish him off. Bordon was squatting down next to another of the rebels who appeared to be dying, undoubtedly trying to get what information he could from him. A moment later he rose, and approached Tavington.

"He's dead, sir. This was a spontaneous gesture. Apparently some of the rebel militia returned to the Crawford plantation and got the story from the overseer. They believed that the raiding party was our full strength and set out without delay."

"Get three men and get back into those western woods. See if you can find those marksmen. Call in the pickets, if they're still alive." Tavington thought a moment more. "Find out who's wounded. See if we've lost anyone." Bordon nodded and walked away, relaying his orders to the other officers. 

Tavington looked down at Miss Wilde, still held close. "Are you all right?" He slackened his grip, and she held on to his arm, a little off-balance.

"Just barely," she replied, with a wan smile. She looked around, and put out a hand to Julia. Amelia looked on, still and silent. Miss Wilde drew her into her other arm, and the three girls clung together.

Miss Wilde touched Julia's face, wiping blood from it. Her hair swung loose, brushing blood onto Julia's cheek again.

"I have blood in my hair," Miss Wilde said wonderingly.

Tavington touched her shoulder reassuringly. "At least it is not your blood." He wiped his blade on the dead man's coat, and sheathed it.

Julia stared at the mangled corpse. "Well, I guess that really is worse than Aunt Sarah Jane Minerva's picture."

"Oh, Julia," groaned Miss Wilde. "Don't look, darling." She straightened and looked around, concerned. "Where is Cousin James?"

"Here," answered a deep, slightly slurred voice. "I feel like I've been kicked by a horse. No. I _was_ kicked by a horse." Wilkins, a few yards away, sat up slowly, cradling his head in his hands. A huge purple bruise, oozing blood, was forming above his left eye. Miss Wilde was quickly at his side, appraising his injury.

"A glancing blow, luckily, or you would be dead. Julia, climb into the wagon and get one of the rolled bandages from the medicine chest." 

Tavington looked him over. "His helmet took some of the force of the blow." Miss Wilde gently and expertly wound the bandage around her cousin's head. Tavington asked brusquely, "Do you think you can ride, or will you need to be carried in the wagon?"

Stung, Wilkins answered, "I can ride away from here---sir." Tavington chuckled darkly, and walked back to the shambles around the wagon. The featherbed was trampled, bloody, and leaking white feathers that drifted gently around the scene of carnage like snow.

"Someone get this carrion out of the way. Lieutenant Hunt! Get some of those blacks to help us clear this mess up!"

Willing hands carried off the headless corpse. Others pulled the dead man from under the wagon. Julia gave an odd little gurgle at the sight of the ruined head.

"Good shooting, Miss Wilde," complimented Tavington. The young lady shook her head and nodded toward Amelia.

"I killed him," the girl whispered. She stood, silent as always, looking reflectively at the gruesome sight.

Tavington came up and patted her gently on the back.

"Well done, then." He praised her as he would any young soldier making his first kill. Feeling she needed more, he continued. "You saved your sisters, and you have done nothing for which you need be ashamed." 

She looked him in the eye for the first time. "I am not ashamed. I'm glad he's dead." Tavington saw she had a pistol in each hand. She caught his glance and answered, "Yes, I fired the other one, too, but I think I hit a horse." She made a face, and Tavington smiled.

"Nevertheless, you've done very well, indeed. Are those your father's pistols?" Amelia handed one to him, and he took a moment to admire it. It was well balanced and beautifully chased: a splendid piece of work. "Those are fine weapons. Your father would be very proud of the use you put them to today." He gave her a smile, and she smiled faintly in return, meeting his eyes again. 

Julia came up and put her hand in his, wanting his attention. "You cut that man's head right off. Right off, just like that," she repeated, in disbelief.

He frowned, and refrained from stroking her hair when he saw his right hand was still wet with blood. "Sometimes it has to be that way."

"But you did it so well. He must be the deadest man who ever lived." Baird, passing by as he collected his gear, laughed aloud, and went off to repeat what he had just heard to his friends. Miss Wilde gave a sigh of despair.

"Colonel, I take it we're going to leave as soon as possible?"

"As soon as everyone is accounted for, and I feel our party is in proper marching order."

"Then I suppose I had better find my boots." She looked down at her feet and walked away, complaining bitterly, "Good God! I have blood on my stockings, too."

  


"


	6. Chapter Six: Communication and Introspe...

_Disclaimer: Yes, I own the rights to the Patriot. No, wait, that was a psychotic break. _ CHAPTER SIX: Communication and Introspection 

It was a hot, slow, and dirty four hours to Camden. Tavington had given orders to bring plenty of water along, but they were still thirsty and exhausted when they finally saw Fort Carolina in the distance, and Camden beyond it. They had only lost Hawkins, the dragoon on guard duty to the west. His killers had silently come upon him, silently killed him, and silently slunk away when they saw the attack fail.

The few other wounded were able to ride, except Dan Lovins, who was lying bandaged in the wagon he had helped load the day before. The Wilde sisters had rearranged the crates and trunks to allow the filthy featherbed, covered with the quilt turned cleaner side up, to fit in the wagon and provide the wounded man with a fairly comfortable nest.

"I think the head wound is probably from a spent bullet," Miss Wilde had told Tavington. "Still, he's badly concussed, and cannot ride safely, despite his protests. He cannot even walk straight. Melly and Julia will sit with him in the wagon and look after him." She had drawn her veil over her face, and carefully donned her gloves to protect her hands, but no amount of sponging had succeeded in cleaning the blood from her habit. After the celebratory relief following the skirmish, the girls had grown quiet and seemed each in her own way to be coming to grips with the change in their circumstances.

Checking on Lovins' condition during the march, he had heard the two younger girls talking. Apparently, they had recognized some of the militiamen who had attacked them, and had mixed feeling about seeing them dead. Amelia sat silent, with hunched shoulders, attending to Lovins. Julia had fallen asleep, her head pillowed on her arms in a corner of the wagon.

Coming up beside Miss Wilde, he received a nod and a tired smile from beneath her veil, but she seemed in no mood to talk. Even with frequent halts, she was plainly fatigued.

He leaned from his horse. "Are you all right? Do you need to have someone else take the lines?"

"No. No, thank you. I can manage. But," she added wearily, "I am very ready for this day to be over."

"Apparently, your sisters recognized some of the attackers."

"So did I." She said nothing else. She saw that he was still looking at her, questions unanswered.

She went on, reluctantly. "I hardly think Charles Crawford will still want to marry me, now that I've killed his brother." She looked at him again, the heavy veil making her face hard to read. "Oh yes, I saw Francis in the streambed."

"Miss Wilde, I hardly think you should feel responsibility for a rebel's death."

"Ah, but I killed him. I killed him when I complained to you about my lack of a team, and suggested you visit his home. What I am carrying in the wagon is the price of his life. I hope we enjoy it all very much."

"He chose to be a rebel. He chose to rob you. He chose to attack us. You had no part in any of that. Even if you did," he continued, somewhat impatiently, "What does it matter? The rebels are your enemies, my enemies, and the King's enemies. Killing them is my duty. They do not fight like gentlemen, and thus do not deserve the consideration one gives to gentlemen. Though the Lord General," he added with scorn, "appears to think they should be treated as our brothers."

"Now that is interesting. How does one pursue a war with one's brother?"

"Very half-heartedly, it would seem."

"Then we cannot win."

"We shall win," he said confidently. His lips curved in a proud smile. "I have never lost a battle."

She kept her eyes on the road, her profile obscured by the dark veil. "All those victories will not avail us if the Crown decides the war is no longer in its best interest, or the Colonies '_not worth what they do cost the holding.'"_

"_What is aught, but as 'tis valued?"_

"That is a soldier's argument indeed, Prince Troilus: fortune and glory. But the lawyers and bankers in London," she said, "may care a great deal more for the fortune and not a pin for the glory."

He rode beside her for a while in silence. Glancing back at Lovins, he said, "First we must report back to the Fort, and get Lovins and the rest of the wounded to the surgeons. Captain Wilkins and a few of the men will escort you to your aunt's. Has she a manservant?"

"A very aged one. Uncle Ganymede isn't really up to any of the trunks, much less the piano. I will need all the help you can give me." She looked straight ahead, avoiding his eyes. "I realize that words are cheap, but I never thanked you properly for saving my life. So," she said gravely, "thank you. I really am most grateful."

"Miss Wilde, you would not have been in danger, had I not insisted on taking you with me to Camden. You owe me nothing."

"I may not owe you my thanks, but it pleases me to give them to you nonetheless."

"I would gladly give you any pleasure within my power_." Good God_, d_id I really say something that stupid? _He winced and looked away. He hoped her too innocent to take his words amiss. He had never been anything but awkward with women. With Miss Wilde indeed, he had felt that he was proceeding unusually smoothly, for him. Now he had made an ass of himself. He stole a glance at her from the corner of his eye. She did not seem angry or embarrassed, simply weary.

Carefully, he spoke again. "You're quite welcome." 

Tired as she was, she turned the full power of her smile on him. He felt rather---what? He tried to choose the appropriate word. Charmed? Moved? Perhaps –stirred. She was not the greatest beauty he had ever met, and she certainly did not appear to best advantage in a dark veil and bloody habit, but he felt that there was something between them: some connection.

The shame of his father's ruin and his family's sudden fall into poverty had rendered him inept in society. Aware of his status as a poor relation and the son of a bankrupt, his schoolmates had been cruel and his schoolmasters disdainful. To this day, his attempts at polite conversation seemed stilted and forced even to his own ears. Only when he could armour himself in his rank and his rising fame as a soldier, did he feel he had a place among his peers.

If he had met Miss Wilde, the daughter of John Wilde, famous naturalist and wealthy landowner, at some ball or reception, he unquestionably would have been as dull and tongue-tied as he always was with a pretty woman of fortune. But--_thank God--_they had not met in such a way. Instead, he found her in need of his protection and assistance. They had spoken directly and without pretense of practical matters, but also of books and of nature. She had confided in him: told him her secret thoughts, and trusted him with whatever remained of her past wealth.

__

Why not? A woman in danger naturally will turn to the man best able to protect her. I cannot fault her for that, it is her woman's instinct, and it serves her well. Perhaps I flatter myself, but it seemed that there was more to it. She talks to me as if she values my opinion, as if my company pleases her, as if she—likes me. 

He ventured another glance. She had her attractions, that was undeniable. She was well spoken, an interesting companion, and her care for her sisters bespoke a great capacity for affection and loyalty. She was a capable person as well, aside from being what the world called an accomplished woman. 

She was evidently a horsewoman, she could drive a team, she had administered the family plantation by herself; she was resourceful and efficient under pressure. She had a tart tongue, perhaps, but a forgiving nature. She seemed to bear him no ill will for his assertion of authority yesterday. 

He smiled to himself. _She can even bake an excellent cake_.

He admitted that her bond with her two young sisters struck another chord in him. He, too, had once had sisters he had loved dearly. With the collapse of the family fortune, the family itself had fallen apart: he, sent away to boarding school and then to the Army; his elder sister Margaret virtually sold to a wealthy tradesman, and dead in childbed within the year; his cherished little sister and companion Celia, perishing of loneliness and typhus in the wretched school to which she had been banished. 

His own mother, lovely and loving as she was, had neither the strength nor the resources to save even herself. The day he left to take up his commission at the age of sixteen was the last time he saw her. They had corresponded faithfully for two years, and then there was nothing. Finally his repeated letters, pleading for word of her, had elicited a curt note from his Uncle Fitzroy-Hughes. His mother was dead of an overdose of laudanum, six months before. She had left nothing but debts. His family hoped he would not follow in the bad example of his parents, but expected little good of such stock. After that, Tavington had not found it hard to cut all ties with his uncle and the rest of his smug relations.

Of his father, there was no word for five years, and then he bore alone the scandal of his father's ugly and shameful death.

Talking with little Julia yesterday had recalled to him how happy he had been with his sisters years ago. It had even reminded him of his secret longing for children of his own. He wondered what kind of father he would be_._ As always, the first picture that came to mind was that of himself putting a lively little boy on horseback for his first riding lesson._ I_ _cannot possibly do as badly as my own father. _He remembered Miss Wilde's impulsive confidence about hers: incompetent, negligent, careless, unkind. How well her description of her father described his own. Perhaps they had a great deal in common.

Unbidden came the thought he had tried to repress. _What I principally find intriguing is the way she felt when I held her against me. And the way she made me feel._

He shook his head to clear it. When Miss Wilde looked at him, puzzled, he nodded to her coolly, and returned to the head of the column. It would never do to pin his hopes on a two days' acquaintance, even if her sudden reversal of fortune closed the gap between them. In the end, he had nothing to offer her but a soldier's pay, and a hard and rootless life following the army. Better to remain alone, while he had his fortune still to find.


	7. Chapter Seven: Tea With Vinegar

**__**

Disclaimer: I don't own The Patriot. Not at all. Ever.

Author's note: Thank you to all my reviewers. I very much appreciate your support. ****

CHAPTER SEVEN: Tea with Vinegar

That Saturday, Tavington found that his regimental duties were well enough in hand to allow him some leisure. His promise to call on the Misses Wilde gnawed at him. By now, they had surely forgotten about the invitation, and pursuing the acquaintance might seem presumptuous on his part. The memories of their adventures together gave him great pleasure. Rather than spoil them by a visit that would reveal the ladies had no further interest in him, he would prefer that they never met again.

Still, he had promised them a visit, and did not want them to imagine that his word was worthless. He would go, and if they were not receiving, he would leave his card and consider his duty done.

Wilkins had accompanied them into the town, per his orders, and had reported back that the ladies were safely settled at the home of their mutual great-aunt, Miss Everleigh. Apparently the house already was filled to bursting with women and children, but with some rearrangement, a room had been made available for the three girls to share. The captain had said little else, and seemed rather subdued, but his expression made clear that he infinitely preferred a cot in a regimental tent to any bed under his aunt's roof.

Now, presenting himself at the door of the respectable red brick house, Tavington hid his anxiety behind a mask of supercilious calm and full regimental regalia. The elderly slave--Uncle Ganymede, was it?--took his name and tottered away, telling him he would see if the ladies were at home. Tavington looked about the entrance hall, rather old-fashioned but speaking of comfortable circumstances. There was a curious odour in the house, and he remembered Julia's remarks. The smell combined dust, the sweetness of rosewood furniture, the unique aroma of Southern cookery, and the sour scent of incontinent old age. He could hear women's voices from the back of the house, and footsteps overhead.

There was a loud thumping noise upstairs, and the sound of children quarrelling. Other voices came from upstairs, among them Miss Wilde's, coming down the hall.

"Did you show him into the parlour?"

"No, Miss 'Lizbeth. I didn't know if he was a gentleman you wanted to see."

"Never mind. I'll show him in myself." He heard the rustle of silk petticoats, and then she had turned the curve of the staircase and was standing at the top of the stairs, smiling down at him.

"Colonel Tavington! How very, very kind of you to call on us! Melly and Julia will be so happy. They'll join us in a moment. Please, please, come into the parlour." She led him into a rather fussy reception room, upholstered with a great deal of rose brocade, and decorated with a great deal of---fringe. Everything appeared to have fringe on it: the chairs, the mantelpiece, the cushions, the numerous embroidered footstools, the draperies, the Indian shawl covering the pianoforte. Fringe in a variety of colours, lengths, and designs. The effect was rather bizarre, and it was all he could do not to stare. It reminded him rather of hanging moss on the live oaks, but was neither so natural, nor so appealing.

Seated on the sofa opposite him, Miss Wilde had a glow about her that suggested, he supposed, her happiness at finding a safe haven with her kinswoman. She was dressed in the same black silk gown and lace cap he remembered, and appeared the same pale but pretty woman he had first met at Arcadia. _Was it really just five days ago?_

She looked past him toward the hall door. "Uncle Ganymede, tell Hetty we'll have tea now. Miss Amelia and Miss Julia will be joining us."

Tavington heard the old man muttering darkly as he walked away. 

Miss Wilde said ruefully, "It has been a great shock to the servants, having this house filled to the brim with my aunt's relations. They're more accustomed to long, silent days with only her to tend to. Thank heavens that my Cousin Charlotte at least brought her children's nursemaid along."

Eager footsteps clattered downstairs, and Julia dashed into the room, with Amelia close behind her. Miss Wilde gave them an expressive look, and they restrained themselves enough to curtsey nicely to him. He answered with his most gallant bow. Julia ran over to plump herself down on the sofa next to him, and Amelia shyly seated herself by her older sister. Tavington looked again. Amelia was clothed in a blue print gown, her shining brown hair loose on her shoulders. He sensed that she would not appreciate any attention paid to her new costume, and merely told them how glad he was to see them all well and safe.

"We're so glad to see _you_!" cried irrepressible Julia. "We thought you'd forgotten all about us! You probably rescue people every day!" She impulsively patted his hand. "George Montgomery said we made the whole story up about knowing you. Now he'll see!"

Amelia took a deep breath and made herself speak with blushing effort. "It is so fortunate, Colonel, that you call today, when we are not in school. We are most happy to see you, indeed." She gave him a little smile, like a pressed flower, and then looked away, her courage spent.

"School?" He looked at Miss Wilde, questioningly. "It is July. What school would be open now?"

"My school, not to put too fine a point upon it," answered Miss Wilde.

Tavington raised his brows.

Julia scowled. "It's all because Aunt Sarah Jane Minerva found out the Montgomerys are illiterate savages."

"Julia!" said Miss Wilde sharply. "Don't abuse your relations."

"They abuse us! George Montgomery is a big bully!"

"Stop." Miss Wilde said, soft and fierce. She composed herself and told Tavington calmly, "With all the children in the house, my aunt was quite at a loss. My cousin Charlotte is thoroughly engrossed with her three youngest, and it can surely do no harm to the three others to have something worthwhile to occupy their time. Besides," she looked archly at Julia, "it's not as if I haven't had years of experience teaching children."

"Lilabet is a wonderful teacher," said Amelia, and ducked her head again.

Julia took up the tale. "And so the five of us study with Lilabet in the dining parlour every morning from nine until noon, and then we girls work on sewing and Lilabet gives us lessons on the pianoforte from one until four o'clock. George Montgomery just runs wild in the afternoon."

"He does nothing of the sort, Julia. George has different tasks in the afternoon, but they are still educational."

Tavington was sincerely impressed. "I think your pupils very fortunate, Miss Wilde. It certainly sounds more pleasant than any school I ever attended."

"Lilabet is the only one of us who ever went away to school," Julia informed him. "But that was before I was born."

"Did not your brother attend school?" asked Tavington.

Miss Wilde's lips tightened, and she looked back at Tavington without expression. "No, Colonel. Richard and Tom were taught at home by my father." Seeing his question, she added, "There were once many more of us. Richard was the next youngest after me, then Tom, then Mary, and then Amelia and Julia. There was also Catherine," she said wistfully. "We lost Tom, Mary, and Catherine to scarlet fever before the war. Richard we lost to the war itself."

"Your cousin told me." 

The sound of a tapping stick approached, and a woman's hoarse voice called out, "Lizzie! To whom are you speaking?"

Julia and Amelia looked at each other in despair. Miss Wilde's face grew stony. "It is Colonel Tavington, Aunt, of whom we told you."

With great state, a tall old lady entered the parlour, leaning on a very grand walking stick. Dressed in a voluminous creation of black and violet satin, trimmed with gold fringe, decked with pearls, and crowned with a large and remarkable wig (in its turn topped by an equally remarkable lace cap), she was an extraordinary sight. Tavington stood to be introduced. The old lady appraised him with bright black eyes as Miss Wilde presented him.

"Aunt, Colonel Tavington of the Green Dragoons. Colonel, my aunt, Miss Everleigh." Miss Everleigh extended her hand, and Tavington bowed over it formally. 

"Sit, sit, Colonel." Her hand waved him down, as Miss Everleigh carefully took her place in a large, throne-like chair set at the end of the sofas. She turned a stare on Miss Wilde. "Why was I not informed of his arrival?"

"You were asleep, Aunt, and had told us not to disturb your afternoon rest."

"I like to know who's in my house, especially if you're going to be having men here." She smoothed her satin skirts down with a ring-laden hand. "Did you know he was coming?"

Miss Wilde managed a smile as she looked at Tavington. "No, Aunt. Colonel Tavington has given us a pleasant surprise."

"Too bad," sniffed her aunt. "You could have changed into something that doesn't make you look like a haggard old crow." 

Miss Wilde, stricken, looked away. Miss Everleigh, satisfied that she had put her niece properly in her place, turned her attention to Tavington. 

"So, Colonel, I hear colourful tales of you. Though perhaps not as colourful as Lizzie's habit when she appeared at my door." 

Tavington responded with a look of polite interest. He had had far more experience than Miss Wilde with both relatives and superiors who were arbitrary and impossible to please, and knew that showing pain only encouraged them. He was rapidly learning to dislike Miss Everleigh intensely, but expressing his dislike would do Miss Wilde and her sisters no good, and would only result in him being shown the door.

"I hear my nephew James Wilkins is now under your command. He is a very great fool, is he not?"

Taken aback, Tavington paused to answer. "Captain Wilkins has only recently joined the British Legion, but in that time he has proved most conscientious."

"Ha!" she crowed." I knew it! You think he's a thick-headed bumpkin!" Tavington decided not to argue the point, as it was too close to the truth. The Misses Wilde sat silently, but Tavington could see the eldest flinch.

Triumphant, Miss Everleigh sat back in her chair and looked him over thoroughly.

"You're an Englishman, I conclude?"

"Miss Everleigh, only the senior officers in the Legion are British. The bulk of the Legion is composed of loyal Americans like your nephew." She stared unblinkingly at him, obviously awaiting a straight answer.

He surrendered with, "Yes, Madam, I am English."

"I thought so. This town is crawling with military adventurers from who-knows-where. They are nobodies at home, but they put on a uniform, come here, and think they are cock of the walk." 

Against such a direct attack, Tavington was proof. He rewarded Miss Everleigh's insult with his grandest sneer, raised an eyebrow and spoke softly.

"Indeed, Miss Everleigh, these Colonies have gotten themselves in such straits, that now they must choose between military adventurers who seek to protect them and uphold the King's law; and the political adventurers who seek to drag them into chaos. Whom do you prefer?"

Amused, Miss Everleigh emitted a raucous laugh. "Good for you, sir! I like men to act like men." She thumped her stick loudly.

"Ganymede!"

Out of nowhere, the butler appeared. "Yes, Miss?"

"Tea!"

"Yes, Miss," muttered Ganymede, and vanished instantly.

Tavington wondered if he would be so idiotic as to blush, for Miss Wilde and Amelia were overflowing with silent admiration, and Julia beside him had slid a small arm into his. Miss Everleigh observed it all with her bright black eyes, and snorted.

"What, Lizzie? Were you afraid I'd drive away your lover with a frank word or two?"

Amelia gasped with horror, and fixed her eyes on the floor. Miss Wilde grew pink, and she looked at Tavington helplessly. He gave her a small smile.

__

Am I her lover? How did this happen? 

He looked at her again. _Perhaps there are worse things than to be thought the suitor of a pretty, well-bred woman. _

Magically, Ganymede arrived with the tea things, and Miss Wilde could conceal her mortification by pouring for them all.

A well-grown boy with a remarkably dirty face sidled into the room, and lounged by the door, staring at Tavington. Miss Everleigh saw him, and showed him no mercy.

"George Montgomery! Were you invited to join us?"

The boy goggled, obviously surprised to be so challenged.

"No, Aunt Sarah Jane Minerva. I just wanted a look at---"

"Then get out! Go upstairs and wash your dirty face!" The boy gave another surprised stare, and fled.

"Horrible little brute," said Miss Everleigh. "You should whip him, Lizzie, or he'll never amount to anything." She then addressed Tavington. "My niece fondly imagines that she can educate that savage without whipping him."

Miss Wilde bristled, "My pupils have always done well, Aunt, and I have never had to resort to violence."

"That's because you never taught a boy before," replied Miss Everleigh with conviction. "Little boys are mostly bad, and grown-up ones not much better. If they were, the army wouldn't need to flog them. Don't you agree, Colonel?"

Tavington refused to be trapped in such a way. "Soldiers in the British Army are not so fortunate as to have Miss Wilde's instruction."

This elicited another hoarse laugh. "Well parried!" The old lady seemed pleased. Tavington sighed inwardly at another narrow escape. He finished his tea and prepared to take his leave.

"You are not going?" cried Julia, disappointed.

"My dear Miss Julia, I have already been here over half an hour." He looked Miss Wilde directly in the eye. "I wanted very much to see how you all did, and it is evident that you are quite well with your esteemed Aunt." He gave a polite nod to Miss Everleigh, who smiled sardonically. "I also was asked by Captain Bordon to give his regards to the Arcadian nymphs."

"Ha! " snorted Miss Everleigh. "Still, not a bad figure of speech." 

The girls were all abashed and pleased, each in her own way. Julia tugged at his sleeve. "Is there such a thing as a little girl nymph?"

"Of course: it stands to reason."

Julia was greatly delighted by this. "Lilabet, do you remember how it annoyed Mamma when Papa called her his Muse?" Even Amelia seemed hard put not to laugh. Miss Wilde smiled at the memory.

"Yes, she would say, 'Speak to me as to a rational creature, not a mythological one.'" She laughed. "Thank Captain Bordon for his charming sentiments. And I have not asked you about Mr. Lovins. Has he recovered?"

"Oh, yes, quite himself now. A good man."

"So we thought." 

Tavington rose and bowed again to Miss Everleigh. "Madam, I thank you for receiving me."

"We would like to see you again. Would you join us for dinner tomorrow?"

"Madam, I regret that I cannot. My duties---"

"Well, then, Monday?"

He hesitated.

"Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday?" 

"I believe I should be back by Wednesday, and accept your invitation with pleasure."

He clicked his heels, and turned to leave. Miss Wilde rose and joined him.

"I'll see you out." Julia jumped up as well, but her aunt restrained her.

"I think Lizzie and the Colonel can find the door by themselves." Julia pouted and sat down again.

In the shadowed entryway, Tavington paused to look again at Miss Wilde. She handed him his helmet and gloves with a bemused air. He caught her eye and smiled gently. "_Are_ you all right, Miss Wilde?"

"Yes, of course," she replied, somewhat embarrassed. "We are very lucky to have a roof over our heads: it is most generous of our Aunt to open her comfortable home to us."

__

If you say it often enough, perhaps you'll come to believe it, thought Tavington. He said only, "It seems to me you are doing more than enough to deserve it."

She sighed and shut her eyes. "Please, Colonel, there is nothing I can say about our situation that will not sound ill bred and ungrateful." She looked up at him with a slow smile. "I must say, though, what a very great pleasure your visit has been. I hope you will be able to join us this Wednesday."

"I will do my utmost." He stepped out into the hot July sun, and donned his helmet. "Until then."

"Until then, Colonel," she said softly, shutting the door behind him.

Coming down the steps, he noticed three children watching him from the corner of the house. One was the boy, George Montgomery; with him were two smaller girls, marginally better groomed, whom he guessed were the boy's sisters. He paused and raised an eyebrow questioningly.

The girls backed away behind some shrubbery, but the boy continued gaping at Tavington. 

Finally, he asked abruptly, "Did you really cut off that fellow's head?"

Tavington smirked, laid his hand on his sword hilt, and gave the boy one of his milder sneers—he was a boy, after all. "Which fellow? I cut off a lot of heads."

The girls vanished in a flurry of whispers. The boy stood open mouthed, then gave a respectful grunt, and ran back behind the house. Tavington rolled his eyes and turned to go, when he heard Miss Everleigh's voice from inside the house, evidently addressing Miss Wilde.

"A very good-looking man, Lizzie. It will be most agreeable to see him at the dinner table. I suppose it's too much to hope for that there would be any money there?"

Miss Wilde answered icily, "I neglected to ask him, Aunt."

Tavington determinedly shut his ears, and strode away, spurs jingling down the walk.


	8. Chapter Eight: The Talisman

**__**

Disclaimer: I have not yet found a way to own the rights to The Patriot

CHAPTER EIGHT: The Talisman 

The next few days were a nightmare of blazing heat, stifling humidity, and sudden, torrential rains. Tavington and his men were tortured by swarms of mosquitoes, flies, and unknown crawling creatures. The thick mud never seemed to dry out, slowing the dragoons down notably as they probed the countryside for resistance. Tavington focused on the task at hand, dismissing all other concerns for the time being. 

Loosely knit as they were, it was hard to come to grips with the rebels, or even to be sure who they were. Loyalties were in constant flux, family connections complex. A man might describe himself as Loyal to Tavington, and possibly even think it true; but that might not prevent him from trading with rebels, dining with rebels, and even sympathizing with rebels if they were his friends or kinsmen. A man might call himself a Patriot, and be willing to fight the British, but not be willing to attack Loyalist homes. Sometimes both Loyalists and rebels had no real quarrel with the British, but bitter feuds with each other that made nonsense of the names they gave themselves and their enemies. Sometimes neighbor attacked neighbor, not out of political conviction, but only to pillage with impunity. In this tangle of allegiances, how was a man of action like Tavington to sort things out? 

Tavington had decided to cut through the Gordian knot by identifying as a rebel anyone who aided rebels in any way. He had explained his criteria to David McKay, when the boy joined the Dragoons at the end of June. McKay had suffered enough himself to have lost all sympathy for the rebels, but he still felt there were shades of grey in the matter of loyalty.

"With respect, sir, what about the neutrals?"

"There can be no neutrals in this war. If a man is not loyal to his King, he is in rebellion against him." The young officer still looked confused, so Tavington decided to give him an example.

"This May, after the battle of Waxhaws, we came across a farm where some of our wounded were being cared for."

"Then the owner was loyal."

"No. The owner was also caring for the enemy's wounded. A Christian act, you might say, but a disloyal act nonetheless. If that were not enough, the man's son was caught red-handed with dispatches for the enemy. When I put the young man under arrest as a spy, a younger brother of the spy attacked the guards, and I was obliged to shoot him. Of course, we then burned the house and outbuildings, took the horses, and freed the slaves. Should the rebels at this household have been pardoned their treason because they also cared for some our troops?"

"I don't see how we could, sir."

"We couldn't. In my opinion, aside from the other egregious acts they committed, simply giving aid and comfort to the enemy was enough to brand them traitors." 

Young McKay had taken his point: that a treacherous act makes a traitor, and an act assisting rebels, of whatever kind and for whatever reason, was proof of rebellion. It must be so, or they would spend their entire time in the Carolinas splitting hairs.

It seemed ironic to Tavington that some of the men in arms against them had served the King in the last war. Bordon's contacts among the Cherokees told him of fierce battles, of savage atrocities unlike any in this war. Atrocities that, as the Indians told it, had not been confined to their side. Certainly the men who had fought in that war had learned to adopt many of the Indians' tactics against them. That knowledge was now being utilised against Tavington and his men: the stealthy pursuit, the sudden ambush, the melting away into the underbrush when faced with superior odds. The country itself was not always hospitable to cavalry, and the infantry was particularly vulnerable to the Indian-style attacks of the rebels. Tavington could conceive of a force that would be better suited to this conflict, perhaps armed with rifles for better accuracy and thoroughly trained as skirmishers; but in the meantime, he had to use what troops were at his command in the most effective way possible. It was a pity that the Lord General lacked either the imagination, or the flexibility, or the will that was needed to wage war here and win.

By Tuesday, the inclement weather had too many of his men looking worn-out and ill. Sickness always took a heavier toll than battle, and the growing number of men showing symptoms of a feverish ague alarmed him. He decided to turn back to Fort Carolina to give them a chance to rest and recuperate. Even a tent was better than no roof at all. Then, too, the men would have their women there to look after them.

__

Why did I think about that? Now I'm going to start thinking about her again. This is madness.

He saw Wilkins on his big chestnut gelding, looking all in. Often he felt the temptation to talk to the man about his cousin, but pride prevented him. He had no particular liking and certainly no great respect for the fellow, and the fact that Miss Wilde was his cousin was something of an irritation. The thought that his sentiments for the lady might be the subject of camp gossip repelled him. He hoped that Wilkins would not be joining them for dinner Wednesday night, but it would be just the sort of thing that malicious old harridan would do. He hardly knew which was more disagreeable: a pretentious old provincial lady playing the _grand dame_, or said lady's vicious sniping at her niece. Aside from her amiable sisters, Miss Wilde's family was not her greatest asset.

Still, he looked forward to seeing her, looked forward to seeing her well-disposed and pretty sisters, looked forward to a meal not partaken of in the presence of other soldiers. After getting some rest, even verbal fencing with her Gorgon of an aunt would not be such a grim prospect.

First, though, he would have to clean himself up. _God, I would like a proper bath again sometime before I die_. That kind of thinking was unhealthy, and he pushed it away. That kind of thinking got men killed. He was tired, and that always caused him to be a little dispirited. He had his life before him, and limitless possibilities. Everything he had ever hoped for seemed to be within his grasp.

Reaching into his waistcoat pocket, he pulled out his talisman. What appeared to be simply a fine gold pocket watch was rather more to him. Opening it, he saw the face that had accompanied him halfway around the world. His mother, forever young and happy, painted on the inside of the watchcase, reminded him of what happened to the weak and tenderhearted. Love her he always would, but he must never allow himself to be like her; for the race was to the swift, the battle to the strong, and fortune favoured the brave. 


	9. Chapter Nine: Running the Gauntlet

_Disclaimer: I don't own The Patriot, but I own every Wilde woman in this chapter _   
  
**CHAPTER NINE: Running the Gauntlet**   


Washed, brushed, dressed in clean linen, and refreshed by a good night's sleep, Tavington felt more than equal to dinner with the unpleasant Miss Everleigh. He amused himself wondering who would be at the dinner table. Possibly Wilkins, possibly the revolting George Montgomery, possibly some hitherto unknown family friend or connection who would be equally unappealing. Or perhaps there would be only Miss Everleigh, testing the degree of his interest by humiliating her niece.

Deep in his own thoughts, he almost missed Julia waving him at him as she stood outside, away from the windows.

She hissed in a loud whisper, "Colonel Tavington! Over here!"

Inclined to indulge her, and curious, he joined her beside the house. "From whom are you hiding? Your cousin?"

"No, he's inside. They're trying to wash him, if that's possible. I was sent to my room as a punishment."

"You are manifestly not in your room."

"We have a lovely tree next to our window. It's too hot up there. How was your patrol?"

"Too hot as well. And too many insects."

Julia was sympathetic. "It is always like this in the summer. I suppose it's different in England."

He smiled. "Very. And how do you do? And how are your sisters?" 

Julia positively radiated excitement. "You will not believe what happened! Lilabet whipped the fire out of George Montgomery!" 

Tavington looked his surprise.

Julia, pleased at his response, repeated herself. "She whipped the _fire_ out of him! I have _never _seen her so angry! You know where it says about 'Terrible as an army with banners' in the Bible? Well, she was like that! We were all so frightened, and George screamed like a girl, and Cousin Charlotte came running down to see what was wrong with him, and Lilabet gave her such a look that she ran right back upstairs without saying a word! It was terrible-—and thrilling, too!"

"He must have provoked your sister exceedingly."

"Oh, yes, he was on his high horse, saying that no stupid female knew anything worth learning. Lilabet was trying to teach him the multiplication tables—imagine a great boy of ten not knowing them! He wouldn't pay attention, and gave wrong answers on purpose. And then he said that about stupid females, and she went still and white, and then her eyes flashed, and she grabbed him by the collar, and dragged him outside, and broke a switch off the dogwood, and pushed him up against the well house, _and she whipped the fire out of him."_

"My dear Miss Julia, you have seen actual battle, and not had so much to say about it!"

"But this was Lilabet! She has _never _struck us! One expects men with swords like you to go around chopping people up, and it is very shocking, but not shocking in the same way. Do you think I'm silly?"

Tavington, torn between laughter and dismay, paused a moment to command his countenance. "No, you are not silly. It is very confusing when a person one knows well does something so very much out of one's experience. When did this happen?"

'Monday morning. Things have not been the same around here since, I can tell you."

"How is your sister?"

"Quiet. She is all right, I suppose. We have all been so busy sewing—but I'm not to tell you about that."

Tavington consulted his watch. "I really must go in. Will you be joining us at dinner?"

"Yes, but I must go back up the tree so I can be let out of the bedchamber. I'll see you in the parlour shortly." She darted away, ducking under the windows, and was quickly out of sight.

*** 

Uncle Ganymede showed Tavington into the parlour with an air of resignation. Miss Everleigh was waiting for him with the boy George Montgomery, as well as another lady, who was briskly introduced to him as Charlotte Montgomery, wife of another of Miss Everleigh's grand-nephews.

Mrs. Montgomery was plump, blond, and doll-like, and spoke to Tavington so timidly that he supposed Miss Everleigh's domineering nature had rather crushed her. She seemed to be constantly apologising for everything. Tavington wondered if she were like this in her own home, and if so, how her husband could bear it. She then presented her son George to him, as if begging his pardon. 

George Montgomery was indeed cleaner than the last time Tavington had seen him, but certainly had no advantage in manner or speech. Luckily, he also seemed too afraid of his great-aunt to mutter anything other than "How d'you do, sir?" to Tavington.

At that moment, Miss Wilde and her sisters arrived. Tavington looked, and looked again, for Miss Wilde, instead of her usual black, was attired in a quite charming gown of sage green silk taffeta, embroidered at sleeves and neckline with a delicate rose pink. She saw the appreciation in Tavington's eyes and turned rather rose pink herself. The total effect was certainly very attractive. It took Tavington a long moment to remember to bow, and other moment to remember her sisters were there.

Miss Everleigh's hoarse voice broke the spell. "Told you he'd like it, Lizzie. You look much better in that than making yourself an eyesore in black." She seated herself with dignity. Tavington took care to sit next to Miss Wilde on the sofa, with Julia taking the place next to him.

"We all helped make it," Julia said. "Saturday night, Aunt Sarah Jane Minerva said Lilabet must have a new gown, and sent Calypso upstairs to look over what might do for it, and they cut it out that very night. We couldn't work on it on Sunday of course, but we talked about it--."

'Julia, you talk too much," snapped Miss Everleigh. "Take a leaf from your Cousin George's book, and hold your tongue."

Julia pressed her lips together and glared resentfully at her aunt. Satisfied, Miss Everleigh smiled smugly and confided to Tavington, "I like to see well-dressed people. I particularly like to see my kinfolk well dressed." She sneered at Charlotte Montgomery. "We will have to do something for you next, Charlotte."

Mrs. Montgomery, who was in fact very becomingly dressed, flushed and eyed her own gown in confusion.

Miss Everleigh then turned her unblinking black gaze on Amelia, who shifted uncomfortably. "At least you look decent now, Melly. I never saw such an abomination as you when you turned up on my doorstep dressed like your own brother. I thought there would surely be a judgement on all of us for it." Amelia eyes turned red, and Tavington decided to interfere with Miss Everleigh's general massacre of her relations.

"I think Miss Amelia looks extremely well indeed. Most ladylike." Amelia looked gratefully at Tavington. He added, "But her previous dress was very practical in her circumstances and served her well. And there are literary precedents. I thought it rather like Rosalind in the Forest of Arden, or Viola on the desolate coast of Illyria."

The Montgomerys, mother and son, stared blankly at him.

Miss Everleigh snorted. "Shakespeare! There are some fine examples to follow there! We'd all be murdering the King, blinding our fathers, running riot, and dining on some pretty shady meat pies if we took him too seriously!" She laughed uproariously. The Montgomerys now stared at them all as if they had gone mad.

Miss Everleigh laughed at that as well. "We are discussing literature, Charlotte! The stuff that books are made on! If George and the girls apply themselves, they will find out what we're laughing at! Until then," she smirked, "you'll just have to wonder."

Tavington began to feel a faint fondness for the dreadful old woman in spite of himself.

At that moment, Uncle Ganymede silently crept into the room to announce dinner. Miss Everleigh imperiously put out her arm for Tavington to escort her. 

"You will sit by me, Colonel," she said. "I see no point in having a good-looking man at my table, if I cannot have a good look at him."

Ganymede served them, tottering around the table so precariously, that Tavington, unfolding a fringe-trimmed napkin, wondered how much of the meal would be dropped on the floor or on the diners. Miraculously, the ancient man managed to do everything quite perfectly, glaring at them scornfully all the while. Miss Everleigh seemed amused at his demeanour. _Another way to keep her guests off-balance, I suppose_, Tavington thought.

Tavington had to give the old lady credit for providing an excellent dinner. With Miss Everleigh at the head of the table, he found himself across from Mrs. Montgomery and Amelia and next to Miss Wilde. Julia was next to Miss Wilde, which unfortunately put George Montgomery and his table manners across from Julia and clearly visible to Tavington. 

Tavington had seen gruesome sights in his years as a soldier, but George Montgomery crumbling beaten biscuits to powder, and using his fingers to pull apart his meat, then dropping it into his mouth, was fairly off-putting. He felt Miss Wilde stir next to him, obviously wishing to say something. Her aunt, however, said it first. 

"George," called Miss Everleigh. The boy immediately dropped his hands, looking guilty. Miss Everleigh picked up her fork and displayed it to him. "What is this?"

"A fork, Aunt?"

"Well, start using yours, or we'll all be sick!" George began to use knife and fork, plainly unaccustomed to them. Throughout the meal, Tavington felt the boy's eyes on him, trying to follow what he was doing. Tavington ignored him in favour of the attractive ladies across from and beside him, and the interesting if horrible old woman at the head of the table.

"Well, Colonel, how goes the war?"

"Well enough, madam, were it not for the climate, the insects, and the rebels."

"Ha!" She dissected her chicken avidly. "Which is worst? Don't tell me, don't tell me! You weren't sent here to fight the heat or the bugs. The rebels are a sad lot of troublesome fools. Like that Hamish Crawford—your beau's Papa, Lizzie! Don't shake your head at me, Miss! The fellow went on with me about liberty and taxation without representation. I said to him, 'Liberty, indeed! And you the master of one hundred slaves. Who amongst them voted for you?'"

"A very good point, Miss Everleigh."

"Better than they know. If a few people get their liberty, it won't be long before everyone else wants theirs, and then where will we be? But Hamish Crawford always was a fool. Always underfoot, making sheep's eyes at Emma--" Tavington felt Miss Wilde stiffen. Miss Everleigh looked past him at her niece and then changed direction. "Well, all the Crawfords were born foolish. His sons were no better, but then Lizzie was always unlucky with men."

Tavington glanced at Miss Wilde, who was glaring furiously at her plate. Miss Everleigh continued between bites, "First there was that DeLancey boy she was going to marry right out of school. Her parents had a nursery full of little girls and wanted an unpaid governess for them, so they put a stop to that! And then that Charles Crawford! Five years younger than Lizzie, and never paid her a mite of attention until Richard died and it looked like she would be inheriting Arcadia. Well, we all know how that ended!"

Miss Wilde, sweet and poisonous, said softly, "At least no one can say I was never asked."

Miss Everleigh paused a moment and gave a harsh laugh. "No, indeed!" She turned her attention to the chicken, knife cutting neatly through the flesh. "You look very well in that dress, Lizzie! I am glad I thought of it. Not a good colour for me anymore, but you can still carry it off!" 

"Yes," said Tavington, very distinctly. He turned to Miss Wilde. "I think you look extremely beautiful." 

Dead silence at the table. Tavington was vaguely aware that Amelia, Julia, George, and Mrs. Montgomery were staring at them open-mouthed. He looked only at Miss Wilde. And she looked only at him.

"Colonel," she said softly, and swallowed. 

"Well," said Miss Everleigh, complacently, "since we all agree that Lizzie is looking well, perhaps we can finish our dinner before it is cold."

Tavington silently fumed, feeling that he had been outrageously and successfully manipulated into revealing more than he wished. Rather than let the odious woman see the extent of her victory, he attempted to introduce a new topic of conversation.

"Mrs. Montgomery, your husband is also in the King's service?" 

Startled, the mild little woman gave Miss Everleigh an apologetic glance, and answered, "Yes, sir, he is with the American Volunteers."

"Under Ferguson, then. A very fine fellow. Your husband is fortunate in his commander." 

Mrs. Montgomery gave him a timid smile. Tavington felt faintly guilty, now remembering Ferguson's uncompromising opinion of one Lt. Montgomery.

"Ferguson?" asked Miss Everleigh. "Scotch, I suppose?"

"Yes," said Tavington, "Major Ferguson is a Scotsman."

"Not surprising. Seems like most of the Scotch are over here. They cannot make a living in their godforsaken country and must hire out their swords."

Tavington gave her a cold stare. "Major Ferguson is my particular friend." He spoke directly to Mrs. Montgomery. "I hope for your husband's swift, safe, and victorious return, Madam." She gave him a shy smile, uncertain what to do with so much unaccustomed courtesy. George Montgomery had found a hero to worship.

Even misery has its limits. The meal was at last over and they returned to the parlour. Tavington began to think of pretexts to speak alone with Miss Wilde, but her aunt plainly had not finished with him.

"I'm sure that Lizzie has shown you some of her father's work, Colonel, but I have a picture that might interest you."

Julia, sitting opposite him, mouthed the words, _Don't look_, at him, and shook her head. 

Miss Everleigh noticed Julia's warning, and smiled maliciously. She beckoned to Tavington to join her by the mantel, to one of side of which was a framed drawing in pencil. "My grandfather, their great-great-grandfather, James Everleigh, was a founding member of the Royal Society. He was very good friends with Mr. Robert Hooke, the distinguished natural philosopher and author of _Micrographia,_ of which I have an enscribed copy. Mr. Hooke was curator of experiments for a number of years for the Society, and in this instance made an interesting drawing of the subject. The object was to flay a dog, and determine at which point the creature could no longer survive without its skin. You see how very well Mr. Hooke captured his subject."

Tavington looked. It really was quite horrible, and very precisely drawn. He had seen worse, but could not imagine doing such a thing even out of scientific curiosity.

"Most interesting," he said calmly. "A unique work."

Amelia, greatly daring, said "But it is so cruelly painful for the poor animal."

"My dear Amelia," said her aunt, with contempt, "if your sister taught you to read the works of M. Descartes, instead of trashy French novels---_La Nouvelle Heloise_, indeed!—you would understand that animals do not feel pain. They are merely machines, and what appears to be pain is merely the machine's automatic response."

"It looks like pain to me," said Julia, rebelliously. "Colonel, do you think animals are only machines?"

Tavington shook his head. "That is not a question to put to a cavalryman. I have known too many horses superior to the men who rode them." 

Miss Everleigh snorted.

"Besides, Aunt," said Miss Wilde, "the works of M. Descartes are in Latin, and I do not have your acquaintance with that language."

"Oh, yes, that is true," smirked her aunt, "I seem to remember that had something to do with you being sent to school. Her father," she continued, addressing Tavington, " was very much opposed to the idea of girls learning Latin. I am glad my father had no such prejudice." She drew a deep, satisfied breath. "_Cogito ergo sum." _She raised her wrinkled brows at Tavington.

"I think, therefore I am,' he translated. _Or perhaps_, he mentally paraphrased, _I think rude thoughts, therefore I say them to all my relations_. Miss Everleigh was regarding him much as one does a dog that has done its trick. She looked around the room for a new victim.

"Amelia, I feel in the mood for music. Play that piece you were practicing this afternoon for Colonel Tavington."

Amelia sat still a moment, and then gave her aunt a little defiant tilt of the head. "Very well, Aunt." To her sisters' evident surprise, she immediately went to the pianoforte and began to play. It was Handel, and a little old-fashioned, but it was very nice indeed. She had no sooner finished the theme, and begun the first of a set of variations, than Miss Everleigh began talking again.

"Music is such a wonderful accomplishment for a young woman. Do not you agree, Colonel?"

Tavington gave her a sharp nod of assent, and resolutely gave his full attention to Amelia. Miss Everleigh smirked at his annoyance.   
  
"It makes up for whatever a girl may lack in looks or charm." Amelia glanced at her and played a little louder.

"Amelia certainly needs all the help she can get." 

At this, Tavington got up, walked to the pianoforte, and began turning Amelia's pages for her. The piece was soon over, and Amelia flushed happily at acquitting herself so well. 

Her sisters and Tavington applauded, and after an uncertain moment, the Montgomerys followed their lead.

"You play beautifully, Miss Amelia," said Tavington.

"Thank you, Colonel. Lilabet plays the best of all of us, of course." 

Miss Wilde came over to kiss her sister. "That was lovely, dearest." She dropped her voice to a whisper. "I am very proud of you."

Tavington asked, "Would you not play for us, Miss Wilde?"

"If you wish it," she said, and took the chair at the pianoforte. She thought a moment, and then began, in a mellow and well-trained contralto:

__

"Art thou troubled? Music shall calm thee.

Art thou weary? Rest shall be thine.

Music, source of all gladness, heals thy sadness at her shrine, 

Music, music ever divine.

Music calleth, with voice divine.''

The long phrases, the serenity of the song, spread an air of peace over the company. Miss Wilde gave Tavington a glance, and a hint of a smile. No one, since he was a child, had ever sung just for him. The song ended; there was a moment of silence, and then the applause of Miss Wilde's listeners, including a grudging three claps from Miss Everleigh. 

Feeling that the Wilde sisters had scored something of a victory over their aunt, Tavington decided it was time to escape before Miss Everleigh mounted a counterattack.

"I have had such a delightful time, Madam," he said, granting Miss Everleigh an ineffable smile. "One hardly expects such a civilized evening in a provincial town." He bowed to her, and shaded the smile slightly to a sneer. She smiled graciously, indulgent and warily respectful. Tavington acknowledged the rest of the room. "Ladies. Master Montgomery." Amidst the general farewells, Miss Everleigh's strident voice was raised.

"Lizzie, go help the Colonel find the door again."

She drooped somewhat as she saw him out. 

"Miss Wilde, thank you for a most enjoyable evening."

She looked at him in disbelief. "You cannot possibly have enjoyed it. It was horrible. You will probably never want to see any of us again."

"I have known far worse, believe me. I rarely have the pleasure of music. And your aunt is really quite interesting, when she is not aiming her darts at me or those I care for."

She glowed a little at the subtle compliment. "You do know that she was making you run the gauntlet tonight."

"I suspected as much. Her words cannot hurt me. Only being forbidden the privilege of seeing you could do that."

"My family did not exactly appear to best advantage tonight. Except for Julia and dear Amelia, of course. I was so pleased with Amelia's behaviour, but it was inspired by her very great regard for you."

"I heard that you had some difficulties with the boy. He seemed properly chastened."

"Oh, dear. Poor George. I am sure Julia could not wait to tell you. Was she out of her room again?"

"My lips are sealed."

"Incorrigible girl. At any rate, I expect you heard about George being punished. I feel somewhat guilty about that."

"Whipping naughty boys is against your principles?"

She laughed. "Please do not think me so absurd. No. He deserved his whipping, but he did not deserve all of Richard's whippings and Tom's whippings as well. That was unfair. When he spoke so despisingly of the stupidity of women, it brought back all the unkind words my brothers ever said to me. As my aunt could not resist telling you, my father taught them, and would not teach me. And I was jealous."

"Never apologise to him. He would not understand, and would merely think you weak."

"I daresay you are right." They were silent a moment, and Tavington could hear Miss Everleigh holding forth in the parlour.

Miss Wilde said, "You must think me very ungrateful to complain of my family, when your own is so far away."

"I have no family."

She gave a small, incredulous laugh. "Everyone has a family."

"Not I. I have not a single hostage to fortune. You see before you a truly free and independent man."

"Forgive me, but it seems a dreadful freedom. Though perhaps you do not regret it after a evening spent with my relations."

"The evening had its moments." She had come very close to him. He looked down at her, and she blushed and caught her breath. 

"Lizzie," called her aunt. "Can the Colonel not find the door?"

Miss Wilde and Tavington looked at each other, suppressing outright laughter. Miss Wilde called back, "We are very nearly there, Aunt." She gave Tavington a mischievous smile, "Colonel, I cannot spare my sisters, but if you would like some family, I could offer you an aunt for a modest sum."

He did laugh at that. "I would not deprive you for worlds, Miss Wilde." He grew serious. "May I call again?"

"Whenever you like. I know that you have little leisure. If you call, I shall certainly be here."

"Do you ever get out of the house?"

She sighed, "At Arcadia, I taught all day too, but my dear Mother saw to it that I had time to myself and exercise. Poor Zenobia. I did not know I could miss a horse so much. Some brute is probably using spurs and a curb bit on her as we speak."

Ganymede had appeared from nowhere, implacably presenting Tavington's gloves and helmet to him. Miss Wilde looked aside, amused and embarrassed, as Tavington took them from him, and Ganymede pointedly opened the door. Tavington had hardly a moment to bid the lady goodnight, when the door was closed firmly behind him.

---

Author's notes: Robert Hooke (1635-1703), a pioneering English scientist, was indeed curator of experiments for the Royal Society. The experiment with the dog is, regrettably, true. However, I know of no illustration of it currently in existence. And that's just fine with me.

Amelia played a _Sarabanda in d minor_ by Handel, which is a theme and two variations based on _La Folia_, a tune used by a number of other composers, most famously Arcangelo Corelli.

__

Art thou troubled by Handel really is a sublime song. I will never forget Dame Janet Baker opening a recital with it and I have no trouble recalling how it sounded even after twenty years.

This will be my last posting of double chapters, though I still hope to have a new one up each week.


	10. Chapter Ten: Boots and Saddles

_Disclaimer: I do not own the rights to The Patriot, but the producers of the Patriot don't own my story either. _**** CHAPTER TEN: Boots and Saddles 

"Sir!" cried Bordon, entering the headquarters tent. The stocky man was energized by his news. "We intercepted these dispatches. The rebels have asked for a leader here in South Carolina." He handed them to Tavington, who read over them thoughtfully.

"William Washington? The cousin of George?"

"Indeed so, sir." 

Tavington considered the possibilities. "This fellow James Bradley has arranged a rendezvous at his house for the night of the 5th." A plan started to take shape in his mind, and his lips curved in a wicked smile. "They shall have their meeting."

"But Washington will know nothing of this. Did you want to let the dispatches go through?"

"Of course not. But they shall still have their meeting. With us."

Bordon's face lit up. "You plan an ambush."

"Better than that. Do you suppose that any of these rebels know what William Washington looks like?"

"Apparently not, from the sound of it. They know he's a great tall fellow like his cousin."

Tavington mentally reviewed his officers, and said, "Wilkins won't do. Too many of them will certainly know him."

"Monroe is nearly as tall, and he's from Virginia."

"And he has his wits about him." Tavington called in his orderly. "Tell Lieutenant Monroe to report to me at once." He turned to Bordon. "They shall see a great tall fellow. A few of us, without our jackets or helmets, will go with him. The rest of the Dragoons will be in reserve." He gave a short, sardonic laugh. "This will be wonderful!"

Wonderful it was. With Monroe in the lead, Tavington and a group of junior officers galloped up to the home of James Bradley, a former member of the South Carolina General Assembly. A large gathering of local men was already there, and crowded around excitedly. "That's him! That's Willie Washington!"

"Colonel Washington," a militiaman greeted Monroe, coming down the steps. "We sure are obliged to you for coming." Tavington scrutinized the militia. A mixed group. Respectable farmers and tradesmen, with a liberal sprinkling of rough backwoodsmen and one or two outlaws of the worst sort. He kept an eye on those, while the others pressed forward for introductions.

The militiaman, who it seemed, was Bradley himself, asked Tavington, "And your name, sir?"

Tavington replied, "Captain Williams, at your service."

Bradley frowned, "You don't sound like you're from around these parts, Captain. Are you from Virginia, too?"

"Manchester, Virginia" said Tavington with a modest smile.

"That explains it."

Mrs. Bradley came shyly out of the house, inviting them to dinner. Monroe threw his colonel a _"What now?"_ glance, and Tavington shrugged. Monroe politely accepted her invitation, and Tavington and his officers sat down to a brief but rather delicious meal with some of the militiamen. The others were sent to round up the rest of the rebel sympathizers in the area.

The Dragoon lieutenant was no actor, but stiff and laconic as he was, the rebels all seemed to accept him. When he told them the prearranged story-- that he planned to attack Camden, they mounted their horses without protest and followed Monroe, Tavington, and the other Dragoon officers down the road; where they were instantly surrounded by the waiting Dragoons commanded by Bordon. Tavington drew his pistol and held it on the astounded Bradley.

"Sir, you are my prisoner. Throw down your arms, and you and your men will be spared."

Stunned, Bradley gasped, "_Who are you_?" The militiamen milled about on their horses in fear and confusion.

Tavington lifted his voice so all could hear. "I am Colonel William Tavington of the British Legion, and you are all my prisoners. You have heard my reputation, and I assure you I deserve it. Resistance is useless ."

Bradley paused and licked his lips. "Surrender your weapons," he finally ordered. Mutterings and complaints came from the men, but most complied. One of the truly dangerous men Tavington had been watching dropped a sword with one hand and, with impressive speed, pulled a pistol with the other. Tavington took aim, and put a bullet in his head before the man could fire a shot. The dead rebel slowly fell sideways from his horse.

This was the critical moment. Tavington half expected to be rushed by the enemy, but after the first shock, they submitted. As the Dragoons swept around them, putting them under guard and seizing their weapons, Tavington heard a plaintive voice from one of the militiamen.

"I can't _believe_ Willie Washington went over to the British!" 

Tavington returned to Camden in high good humour, even sense abuzz with the heady combination of danger, combat, and victory. Even General Lord Cornwallis would have to applaud this. Sixty rebels taken, with no casualties, and no executions to hypocritically deplore. 

Indeed, the Lord General was unusually gracious. Almost, but not quite smiling at Tavington, he took his report with a benevolent air.

"I must commend your activity, Colonel," he said. "_And your_ _restraint_. Some of these men may be persuaded to return to their duty and take up arms for the King." He glanced briefly at some dispatches littered about his desk. "We will need all the men we can find to make up our losses. We still have Greene and Sumter in the neighborhood. Sumter's capture of the post at Rocky Mount will certainly encourage Greene to move against us. I want you to continue your patrols. Be alert for any large scale movements." He looked at his map again. "And Colonel----?"

"My lord?"

"Did they really believe you were from Virginia?" The General smiled briefly. "Dismissed."

That went fairly well, Tavington decided. His lordship was in a mellow mood. He hoped it would last. Cornwallis had not taken to Tavington when the general had replaced Sir Henry Clinton. Tavington was no courtier, and had no idea how to go about charming his superiors. Sir Henry, a plain man himself, had accepted Tavington for his skills, and asked nothing beyond them. Cornwallis wanted more. Rumour had it that he hoped for a great estate in America, and wanted to live here after the war. Tavington could understand that well enough. What he could not comprehend was Cornwallis' desire to play the diplomat whilst trying to fight. Winning the hearts and minds of these people, he thought, would be accomplished by showing them that they could not win a war against the power of the Crown. That, in his own opinion, could only be achieved by naked force.

Quickening his pace, he hurried back to his quarters to pen a note to Miss Wilde and plan his own reward for his recent success.

__

They must have been watching for me, he thought, when he reined up at the Everleigh house. Amelia, Julia, the boy George, and his two small sisters ran out the door and stood waiting. The Wilde sisters greeted him happily, and the boy managed to bow somewhat less clumsily than before.

"Please come in." Amelia invited him softly. "Aunt Sarah Jane Minerva wants to congratulate you. She found the story very amusing." She glanced at the two little girls. "And, Colonel, these are our cousins, Jane and Mary Montgomery. Girls, make your curtsey to Colonel Tavington."

Tavington guessed the little girls to be about eight and six years old respectively. They were as blonde and doll-like as their mother, but far prettier. They bobbed their curtseys, giggling.

Tavington nodded indulgently, "How do you do, Miss Jane—Miss Mary?" They giggled again, and clutched each other's hand. 

His lips twitched, "Excuse me, ladies." He entered the house behind Amelia, and heard the children whispering.

"He called us ladies! We're not ladies!"

"Speak for yourself! We're beginning to be ladies!"

The familiar, odd scent filled the shadows of the house. Amelia and Julia, with the boy George following them, led him into the parlour. 

"Ah, Colonel!" The old lady held out her hand to him. "Sit down and talk to me! Lizzie will be down directly. I have no idea what she's doing upstairs." She sat back and gave him a genuine smile. "Tell me how you made bigger fools of those fellows than they already were."

He gave them the story in brief, and could not have had a more appreciative audience. He finished and realized that Miss Wilde was already in the room and laughing with the rest of them. 

As he had requested, she was attired in her riding habit. He rose and she took his arm.

"If you will excuse us," he said. "I shall have her home well in time for dinner."

"I should hope so!" Miss Everleigh said tartly. "I am none too pleased with Lizzie going out riding with a man unchaperoned, but I suppose she's old enough to look after herself!" 

"That will not be necessary, " said Tavington. "_I_ shall look after her."

Miss Everleigh gave him an inscrutable look. "See that you do. And join us for dinner yourself."

It had given him some trouble to find a suitable horse for a woman and the proper tack to go with it. A captain's wife of the 33rd had finally agreed to let him borrow her beloved Sally for the day. He had never seen Miss Wilde so happy or so animated as when he gave her a leg up into the sidesaddle.

As he had surmised, she was an excellent horsewoman: good hands, good seat, elegant straight-backed posture. She was properly careful with another woman's animal, but still had him racing with her through the fields, laughing with delight.

After some time, they found a view of Camden, and dismounted, letting the horses rest. The wind blew lightly through the dark curls ruffled on her brow. She leaned back against her mount and smiled.

"You are a very clever and very generous man."

"Nonsense, Miss Wilde. I selfishly chose to go on a pleasant ride myself, and dragged you along."

"No. You are clever to have discerned what I would most like to do, and generous to actually enable me to do it. So many people give one things they think one ought to like, and then expect gratitude for them."

"I admit that I too have received such gifts."

"But not from your non-existent family?"

"Not anymore." His gaze fell on a clump of yellow wildflowers. "Those are very pretty," he commented.

"Black-eyed Susans." He looked at her doubtfully. "I know my flowers. They are Black-eyed Susans of the _Asteraceae_ family. I shall show you my father's picture of them when we return home. Don't bother," she said, as he bent over them. "They are not fragrant, alas. I think flowers should smell like flowers."

"They do smell like flowers," he said. "They are simply not fragrant."

"What happened to your family, Colonel?" _She will not let go of this_, he thought.

"Do you remember how you described your own father, Miss Wilde? Incompetent, neglectful, careless? Unfortunately, my mother, though the sweetest of women, was not strong and capable, as yours was. Do I need to paint you a picture? My father's vanity and foolish extravagance would have been bad enough, but he also invested heavily in a number of schemes that led to utter bankruptcy. Neither my mother, nor I, nor my sisters knew anything of our difficulties until the day the new owner of our home came to evict us."

"I am so sorry," she whispered. "What happened?"

"Nothing pleasant. My father stayed in lodgings in London, trying to interest former friends in reviving his fallen fortunes. The rest of us lived as poor relations, shuffled from one reluctant connection to another. My elder sister was married off to a tradesman who wanted to parade a well-born wife. She died within the year, along with her child."

Miss Wilde came up to him, and put her hand on his arm. He refused to look at her, and continued.

"My little sister, Celia, was sent away to one of those dreadful schools that teach impoverished gentlewomen how to be governesses. She was so full of life, and it was crushed out of her. My mother received word that she was sick, and begged her brother to allow Celia to come home where she could nurse her. My uncle refused, and Celia died alone. When I first met your sister Julia, she told me that your betrothed was planning to send her and Amelia away to school."

"What?"

"You did not know? From that moment, I knew I was going to protect that child."

"And we are most grateful, but please, please, what of you? What happened to you?"

The sun was growing hot, and he led her underneath a tree. The horses grazed placidly, swishing their tails and cropping off sweet clover.

"Well, I am as you see. I was sent to an inexpensive and unpleasant school where, I assure you, we were whipped enough to satisfy even your aunt. When I turned sixteen, my uncle was prevailed upon to purchase a commission for me. I paid a brief visit, bade my mother farewell, and never saw any of them again, for my mother died two years later. Do not pity me, Miss Wilde, for I learned not to pity myself long ago."

She still looked so grieved, that he suddenly asked, "Would you like to see her picture?" She nodded, and he retrieved his pocket watch, and opened it.

"Oh, what a sweet face! She must have been lovely!" He became aware of how close she was to him, and she must have as well, because she looked briefly uncertain, and then stayed where she was. "But what of your father?"

"He is dead," Tavington said. "The details are unfit for your ears." 

He put his watch away. "And now you know what sort of man you are riding with today. I have no fortune, no family, and no wealthy friends to smooth my way. I had no wish to tell you, but it is for the best. You are bound to hear rumours—"

"I do not listen to gossip"

"I suspect your aunt does. And surely, you must have heard things---"

"Yes, yes. But not about your family." He raised an inquisitive brow. "About you. Certain names---"

"The Butcher of the Carolinas?" She nodded.

"Everything you have heard is true." 

She shook her head. "That is not possible. They say you have burned homes—"

"True."

"—shot prisoners—"

"True."

"—ravished women—"

He blinked in surprise. "Not true! Who said that?"

She blushed and looked at a leaf. "It is said that you boast of it."

"It is untrue, absolutely untrue. I never forced myself upon a woman in my life!"

"Colonel Tavington," she began carefully. "I may have little experience of the world, but I do know that sometimes a man persuades himself that a woman is willing when she is only frightened or resigned." She turned to face him. "I do believe, truly, that you would never harm me or my sisters."

He took her chin in one hand and deliberately tilted her head up to look deep in her eyes. "And you must believe me when I tell you that I know the difference between what is voluntary and what is coerced." He drew a deep breath, feeling vexed. "I am astonished that you would go riding with me after hearing these things."

"I have trusted you with my life. I know I can trust you with my honour."

"And that your aunt would let you--- she really is a malicious creature."

"Yes, she is. But I think it likely that she disbelieves the stories. She has such contempt for most people that she disregards much of what is said."  
  
"I am relieved to hear it!"

"Are you angry with me?"

"No, not at all." He looked out again at Camden, peaceful in the distance. "But I will be, if you do not get back on your horse, and get your full measure of proper exercise." She laughed, and let him help her back up into the saddle. He took her hand from the reins and kissed it, lightly and thoughtfully, and then pressed it to his cheek. They looked at each other intently, while a moment passed. With a slight smile, he gently relinquished her hand, mounted his horse, and turned it toward Camden. "Now, let's see what Sally is really made of!"

Author's notes: Banastre Tarleton, the officer upon whom the producers of the _The Patriot_ claim Tavington is based, really did capture a number of militiamen by impersonating Willie Washington in August 1780. The true story is more preposterous than my fictionalisation: it was the slender 5'6" Tarleton, complete with thick Lancashire accent, who successfully pretended to be the six-foot, heavily built Virginian. I cannot help it: truth is stranger than fiction.

My thanks to my kind and thoughtful reviewers: Zubeneschamali (whose correspondence encouraged me to post at all), Chocchip, Redone (thank you for your useful criticism—I shall try to keep Tavington sharp, but he can't hack his way out of everything with his sabre), Kariana, SilentBanshee, SlytherinDragoon (neat name), Tara Rose, Vetarru Cetkarr, Foodie, uptosomething, JaneyQ, and luvlucius. I have quite an undertaking before me, and your responses give me the stimulus I need to keep at it. I assure you, Tavington will ride again for many more chapters.


	11. Chapter Eleven: A Reprimand and a Reward

_Disclaimer: I do not own the rights to The Patriot, and neither do you. _ CHAPTER ELEVEN: A Reprimand and A Reward 

Never had he fought so hard for so little reward. The battle around Camden on August 16 had been a triumph: while the Delaware and Maryland regulars had fought well, the rebel militia had largely fled without firing a shot, and the treacherous Gates had run like the cur he was. Tavington's own men of the British Legion had performed brilliantly, especially his dragoons, who had swept the field and put the enemy to flight. 

The next day, he had set out to find the elusive Sumter, and had run him down at Catawba Ford. While Sumter had escaped, three hundred of his men had not, nor had forty-four wagons of supplies. His men had liberated over one hundred British prisoners and had every right to think themselves heroes.

But when he had reported to General Lord Cornwallis, expecting the praise and acknowledgement that were his due, he found himself snubbed by the pampered and powdered staff officers at headquarters. Worse still, the Lord General had rebuked him for his charge at Camden. Tavington admitted to himself that he had not waited for orders, but surely the General understood that officers must show initiative. The Green Dragoons' charge was perfectly timed and had clinched the battle. While the staff officers raised glasses to victory with the General, and his very dogs were fed from the table, Tavington had been ignominiously dismissed, and ordered to appear before the Lord General the next day, evidently for more censure.

Captain Bordon had been discreetly sympathetic. "Perhaps, sir, you should have washed before reporting," he had said, referring to the blood staining Tavington's face and uniform.

"I will see them in Hell first," Tavington burst out angrily. "Let them stare. This is what a soldier looks like. Perhaps the Lord General and his staff have forgotten that battle is a bloody business."

He brooded over it in his tent later, alone with a brandy. _I have failed to understand the Lord General. It seems that he is one of those commanders who likes to think of war as a private chessboard. Naturally, he cannot endure it when one of his pieces moves of its own volition._

Tavington, however, had no wish to be anyone's chess piece. He was out there in the field nearly every day. He saw things that the Lord General could not. He would not be reduced to a mere tool, an extension of another's will. He needed to stake out a reputation of his own, and a claim on His Majesty's generosity.

Now, awaiting the General's pleasure, he could see Cornwallis and O'Hara poring over a map, evidently discussing the General's promised land grants. As he approached, Tavington heard the words "One hundred thousand acres."

__

One hundred thousand acres!

"It's an imposing land grant, my Lord. You will be a country unto yourself." O'Hara enthused. 

Tavington had once thought General O'Hara a decent fellow. Since Cornwallis' arrival however, he had become the general's toady. It was a sorry sight, and made Tavington faintly ill. In his heart, he knew that sometimes it was necessary to flatter one's superior, but O'Hara seemed to be enjoying his abasement. 

Resolutely courteous, Tavington approached and said, "His Majesty is most generous, my lord, _(Say something gracious!)_ though, of course, your service in this war more than warrants such a gift." 

Cornwallis fixed him with a grave regard. "Yes. This is how His Majesty rewards those who fight for him as _gentlemen_."

Trying not to take offense at the barb, Tavington smiled uneasily and said, "I dare to presume my own meagre contributions will be rewarded as well one day."

"You may presume too much."

Brought up short, Tavington controlled his expression as best he could. _Now for it_, he thought grimly.

Cornwallis walked away and stood frowning at him.

"His Majesty, like history, judges us not only by the outcome of the war, but the manner in which it is fought."

__

What is he on about now? wondered Tavington.

"My lord?"

'We serve the Crown, and we must conduct ourselves accordingly. Surrendering troops will be given quarter---These brutal tactics must _stop!"_

Some politician has been complaining to him about Waxhaws, I'll wager. _The tender souls at home—or Lord North's enemies-- are concerned about rubbish in a_ _rebel newspaper._ Hiding his contempt, Tavington remonstrated, "Is it not enough, my lord, that I have never lost a battle?"

"You serve me, and the manner in which you serve me reflects upon me!" Cornwallis lowered his voice and thrust home. "I would have thought that someone from a family as esteemed as yours would understand."

__

Self-satisfied, pompous, old bastard. You had to taunt me with that, Tavington thought. Mouth tight, he bit out, "My late father squandered whatever esteem in which my family was held, along with my inheritance." _As if you did not know that already. _Mastering himself, he tried to make the general understand him. "I advance myself only through victory."

"You advance yourself only through my good graces!" Cornwallis paused, and continued condescendingly. "These Colonials are our brethren. When this conflict is over, we will re-establish commerce with them. Do you understand?"

Tavington was suddenly and unpleasantly reminded of similar scenes with his Uncle Fitzroy-Hughes long ago. _Do you understand me_, _boy_?

Swallowing his dislike as he had done then, Tavington assented. "Perfectly, my lord."

His heart pounding with rage and humiliation, Tavington hardly saw where he was going. All he wanted was to get as far from the Lord General and the preening O'Hara as possible. Not a word of praise for the prisoners taken, or their own men rescued. No recognition of his success in obtaining welcome supplies. Instead, he had been scolded like a naughty schoolboy_. No, not like a schoolboy_, he thought. _At school, that sort of talk would have been followed by a whipping, so I suppose it could be worse._

He managed to smile. Despite the General's incomprehensible flutterings about honour and gentility, they were still at war. Many of the rebels captured at Camden were willing to change sides and serve the King. Major Cochrane, who commanded the Legion infantry, would be taking most of these men. With training, they might even be of use. Right now, the British Legion needed to get some rest, lick its wounds, absorb its new recruits, and most importantly, celebrate its victory.

He would send a note to Miss Everleigh, asking to call. At least he need not fear rebuke and scorn under that roof. He visited when he could spare the time, and the pleasure of being with a family seemed to do him good. There were certain rubs, of course. He was occasionally taken aback by the aunt's waspish tongue. Even more peculiar was the extraordinary way the household had embraced him. Within a short time, their behaviour had become positively---familiar. Everyone seemed to be his friend, everyone told him outrageous tales of everyone else. Miss Wilde and Amelia were well-bred girls and showed some restraint in this, and he had always liked Julia feeling she could speak unreservedly to him; but nothing could have prepared him for the Montgomerys. 

Every time he visited, he met another of the teeming brood: first the boy, then the two doll-like little girls, then another, smaller girl, even prettier than her sisters. Next he had been practically assaulted by a two-year-old boy. He knew there was yet another Montgomery, and wondered what lay in store for him there. Their mother seemed incapable of controlling them in any way. Miss Wilde had crisply told him that it was because Charlotte was afraid of them, but Tavington could not understand why. Surely disciplining children could not be that difficult. When he had said as much, Miss Wilde had smiled enigmatically, and he had dropped the subject.

Back in his quarters, he found a message from Miss Everleigh already awaiting him. He was invited for dinner at seven o'clock that very evening. Perhaps the day would not be a total loss. He applied himself to regimental paperwork in a better frame of mind. 

Wilkins reported in for his troop. Tavington still thought Wilkins something of an oaf, but he tried to endure the fellow for his cousin's sake. And beyond that, Wilkins had actually given a good account of himself in the past few days. Tavington repressed a snort. It would be a poor joke indeed if a man of Wilkins' size and strength were unable to fight. Wilkins, however, had exceeded his expectations, and was also doing fairly well as a troop commander. He would never replace Christian Huck, the captain the dragoons had lost to a bullet in the throat in early July, but he was making a decent effort. He was useful, too, in another way. Most of the British Legion came from the northern colonies, and found South Carolina as strange as Tavington himself did. Wilkins was in some sense his interpreter, sorting out customs, family loyalties, and occasionally, translating local dialect outright.

Finishing his report, Wilkins asked him, 'If I may ask, Colonel, will you be seeing my aunt and cousins any time soon?"

Trying not to snap irritably at the man for his inquisitiveness, Tavington answered, "I shall be dining with them tonight. Had you some message for them?"

"Just my respects to them, sir, and if you could, please tell my aunt I will be calling on her soon." Wilkins grimaced. "As you can imagine, she expects her kin to show her considerable attention."

Tavington could imagine it quite easily.

Ganymede showed him in to the parlour with his usual disapproval. Miss Wilde, in the green gown he liked so well, was awaiting him. He was surprised to catch her alone, but pleased at the opportunity.

"Colonel," she beamed, taking him by the hand, "how happy I am to congratulate you on your wonderful success! Everyone is speaking of it. You are quite the hero of the hour." She eyed him with a little concern. "You are all right, I hope?"

"Perfectly well, I thank you." She still looked anxious, so he assured her, "No limbs lost, no mortal wounds, barely a scratch on me." Her eyes widened. Exasperated, he allowed, "A scratch or two only. You can hardly expect me to fight for two days without shedding a little of my blood for the King."

"I would prefer you lost no blood at all. Indeed, I had rather you go on as you have done: by spilling the _enemy's_ blood instead."

He laughed. "I spilled my share." The charge at Camden flashed before him: the mad excitement; the smell of blood, gunsmoke, and hot metal; his heart pumping with his horse's hoofbeats; the fierce satisfaction of laying the enemy low. Looking at Miss Wilde now, the memory made his blood stir, and he fought the impulse to clasp her in her arms, as he once had. 

She shivered a little, and he wondered if she were remembering him in action_. She really has the loveliest---_

The moment was shattered by the wail of an infant upstairs, accompanied by the complaints of small children, and thunderous little footsteps overhead.

"Zilphah will have her hands full with the little ones tonight. They all wanted to mob you, but I persuaded Charlotte to let me have you to myself for a little while." She gave him a mischievous smile. "I hope you are not disappointed."

"I am crushed with disappointment. I was anticipating a pandemonium of giggles and squeals, and little Frank pounding his wooden horse on my knee again. I trust there will be no repetition of this slight." He looked about the room. "I am surprised, though, not to see your sisters and aunt." 

"You'll see them soon enough. I expect they are making a special effort tonight." 

Ganymede reappeared, and gave Miss Wilde a note. She glanced at it, and nodded. She put out her hand to Tavington, and gave him a look so mysterious and alluring he nearly lost his head. She said, "Come with me."

It would never have occurred to him to do anything else. Allowing her to lead him down the hall to the dining parlour, he resolved on some immediate actions concerning her.

Everyone was there. Tavington blinked, but they were still all there. 

Miss Everleigh at the head of the table was no surprise, nor Miss Wilde's sisters, nor Mrs. Montgomery, nor even the irritating George. But in front of him, at the foot of the table was James Wilkins, and with him, all the captains of the Green Dragoons. There was David Kinlock, Richard Hovenden, David Ogilvie, and his particular friend and aide, Hugh Bordon. 

Never had he been so surprised. He was dimly aware of everyone smiling at him, and Miss Wilde beside him, still holding his hand. The candlelit room seemed to him more than beautiful. Even Miss Everleigh was made more comely in the general haze of good feeling surrounding him. 

"Colonel," she cried in her hoarse voice, as Miss Wilde led him to his place beside her, "we could hardly neglect to celebrate such a victory, or recognize the man largely responsible. Forgive an old woman her fancy, but I thought your officers would like to celebrate as well."

"But," Tavington murmured to Miss Wilde, "Wilkins asked me to tell your aunt—"

"He was our spy," whispered Miss Wilde. "Is he not a good one? We wanted to be certain when you would come tonight and have everyone else here waiting for you. You are not offended, I hope?"

Wilkins was rising to his feet to offer the loyal toast, so Tavington replied to Miss Wilde only with a smile and a squeeze of her hand.

"Ladies and gentlemen," said Wilkins, "the King!"

"The King!" they all replied, lifting their glasses.

Bordon then stood, with a nod to Miss Everleigh and a smile to Tavington. "We are here, largely due to the leadership and example of our commander. I speak for all of your subordinates, sir, when I say how very proud we are to serve under you. Therefore I ask all here to drink to Colonel Tavington!"

"Colonel Tavington!" And Tavington watched, moved, as they toasted him. Making an attempt not to completely abandon himself to mawkish sentimentality, he paused a moment to command himself, and then stood.

"The Army has been my home now for –well, many years, but I know that that is not the case for you, my captains, here. You come from all over the Colonies and have sacrificed much to serve King and Country. I am well aware that some of you have left families and properties behind, and that all of you have risked your lives for your beliefs and your honour. It is I who am proud to lead our splendid Legion: Ladies and gentlemen, I give you the Green Dragoons!"

"The Green Dragoons!"

"There, that's enough," said Miss Everleigh, wiping her eyes. "Any more toasts and we'll all fall face-first into the soup!"

Author's note: I am well aware that often the wine would have appeared and toasts been drunk after the ladies had withdrawn following dinner. However, that is an etiquette particularly despised by Miss Everleigh, who insisted on being present for a toast to her guest of honour at her own table. George and Julia became very sleepy from the wine, which was supposed to be mixed with water for them, but was not; and they had to be sent to bed immediately after consuming their portions of a remarkable pudding.


	12. Chapter Twelve: Tomorrow Shall Be My Dan...

_Disclaimer: I do not own the rights to the The Patriot, the Iliad, or Charleston harbour. _ CHAPTER TWELVE: Tomorrow Shall Be My Dancing Day 

The hot weeks of summer passed. Attacks on supply trains and small patrols multiplied. Rumours of a new militia leader, a "Ghost," surfaced, and began to spread through the troops, and through them, to the countryside at large.

Tavington was angry. No sooner had he destroyed the threat of Sumter for the moment, than another of these self-styled rebel "Colonels" popped up to plague him. The losses themselves were minor, but any defiance of British authority could become dangerous. Then, too, the nature of the attacks was troubling: the baggage escorts in some cases had been slaughtered to the last man; and an army surgeon had declared that a number of the deaths had been caused by an axe, rather than sword or musketball, as was usual. 

__

Just after Waxhaws, that prisoner escort that was massacred. Weren't some of those men killed with an axe? He had spoken with the only survivor afterwards, a frightened boy who had babbled something about being attacked by one man—_one man_—who had seemed like a----_ghost_. In that case a spy had been rescued by the rebels_. My fault, really_, he admitted to himself. _If I had taken the time to hang_ _the spy on the spot, those men would never have been killed_. A moment's squeamishness was to blame. He had shot the spy's stupid young brother after an idiotic attack on the men guarding him. He had felt a certain distaste at hanging another of the farmer's sons right in front of him. Perhaps his ill-advised mercy then was coming back to haunt him—perhaps in the guise of this "Ghost."

The Dragoons were out constantly, patrolling the huge area. Fine as his men were, there were simply not enough of them. For that matter, the whole army under Cornwallis was only a few thousand strong, and kept the peace more by its reputation for skill and discipline, than because it was an overwhelming force.

Most embarrassingly, the rebels had raided a supply train carrying the Lord General's personal possessions. He had lost some of his wardrobe, his memoirs, and even those annoying dogs of his, Mars and Jupiter. Tavington considered those last no loss at all, as their appetites were enormous, and he thought it a scandal to feed dogs fresh meat while soldiers made do with the rotten, maggoty rations shipped from England.

As busy as he was, he found it difficult to see much of the Wildes. He had hoped to advance himself further with Miss Wilde than he had thus far. Since the memorable night of the Camden dinner party, however, he had never managed to see her alone. He was reluctant to take her out riding for awhile; at first, because after the battle he feared she might come upon a stray corpse, which would rather destroy the mood he was trying to create, and now, because of the possible threat from rebel militia. He had put her in danger once: he did not intend to risk her again.

One afternoon, returning to his quarters, he found a message waiting for him. There was to be a ball in Charlestown: some absurd gesture of cordiality to the local Loyalists; and a chance to gather his Lordship's friends and colleagues for some long-range planning. Tavington hoped that the Lord General would find him too indispensable in his role as dragoon commander, and would leave him at Fort Carolina to continue his patrols. Unfortunately, Cornwallis, for reasons of his own, denied his request to remain, and insisted that he and at least two of his troop captains attend the festivities.

If he must go, he decided to take Bordon along, if for no other reason than to have someone of sense with whom he could converse. After a little hesitation, he chose Wilkins for his other companion. Wilkins was a native, with family ties to a number of the other guests. Yes, he decided, Wilkins would be a politic choice, because he would set an example of service to the Loyalist community at large.

He expected no pleasure out of such a gathering, that was certain. He refused to don some sort of fancy-dress imitation of a real soldier's uniform and pay court to the mindless provincial belles in attendance. The only lady he would consider dancing with was not to go. At his latest visit to Miss Everleigh's home, he found that the Misses Wilde had heard about the ball, but had not been invited.

"No doubt, if Father were still alive, we would have been," said Miss Wilde, bitterly, "but the dead, even those dead in arms for the King, are soon forgotten."

"It's in the _Iliad_." Amelia spoke up. Her social skills were much improved, and she could converse with Tavington fairly freely. The Camden dinner and her fifteenth birthday had made a change in her; and now, quite the young lady in her dark rose gown, she shared more in the general conversation.

"In the _Iliad_?" asked Miss Wilde, quite puzzled at the change of subject.

"Yes, when Hector is killed. His wife laments the fate of their child, and how as an orphan, the boy will be shunned from feasts with the words, 'Outside! _Your_ father is not dining here.'" Amelia saw her sister's stricken face, and said apologetically. "You told me to read it."

"Quite right, I did," Miss Wilde composed herself, and passed it off with a laugh to Tavington, "Once again, we study classic texts to better endure modern manners." She shrugged. "Besides, it is ridiculous to imagine we could have attended. Our aunt is not well enough to travel so far, and we could not have gone without a chaperone. I am much too busy with my pupils anyway. So you see," she said, smiling at Tavington. "it is not worth a regret."

"I shall regret your absence."

"That," she said, with an arch look, "is another matter entirely." Amelia blushed and became interested in the view through the parlour window.

It was quite dull, in rather an awful way. The most he had hoped for was good wine and some good conversation with a few of his acquaintances. The Charlestown ladies were as insipid as he had expected, and he could not help wishing Miss Wilde were here on his arm to give life to the evening. She would have enjoyed the music, and he would have enjoyed showing her off to those of his friends who had previously made merry at his lack of address with women. They could have talked about the view of the harbour, about the eccentricities of the other guests, about classic texts and modern manners. Instead, he found himself embroiled in yet another unpleasant and accusatory scene with his commander before he could even find himself a drink.

The Lord General was still incensed over the loss of his wardrobe, his memoirs, and his dogs. Trying on a new coat, the effort of a Charlestown tailor, he was in a testy humour, and called the opulent velvet garment "a horseblanket."

"Oh, I don't know, my lord," said Tavington, in an attempt to forestall further rancour, "it's really-- quite nice."

"Very well," retorted the Lord General acidly, "it's a _nice_ horseblanket."

Tavington had no idea why he had been called to attend the Lord General at such a moment. If his commander was dissatisfied with him again, he hoped he would not rebuked in front of the valets.

But so it was to be. 

"Colonel Tavington," began Cornwallis, in that tone which foretold unpleasantness to come. "Why after six weeks am I still at Middleton Place, attending balls in South Carolina, when I should be attending balls in _North_ Carolina? First, the theft of my personal baggage, including my memoirs upon which I spent countless hours. Then half the bridges and ferries burned. Colonel, if you can't protect our supply lines against militia, how do you intend doing so against the colonial regulars, or the French?"

"My lord, they won't fight like regulars! We can't find them." _And I certainly cannot find them wasting my time with this mummery!_

"Colonel, they are _militia_, they're farmers----with pitchforks!"

__

You call them brethren, yet how you despise them; and how little you know them, really. Brothers, perhaps, but still you consider them very, _very, little brothers._ He told Cornwallis, "They are rather more than that, I'm afraid, my lord. Made so by their commander---this Ghost."

"Oh, ghost, ghost_….you_ created this Ghost, Colonel."

"My lord?"

"Your brutality has swelled his ranks, without which this Ghost would have disappeared and I would have been in North Carolina or Virginia by now!"

At the point of tactlessly asking how he was to patrol all the thirty thousand square miles of South Carolina with only the Green Dragoons, Tavington began heatedly. "My lord, in my defense----" 

"Oh, enough, enough!" The Lord General brushed his protests aside with a contemptuous wave. "Fine soldier you are—bested by a bedtime story." He collected himself and beckoned to the valet. "Give me the horseblanket."

At last the Lord General felt well groomed enough to make his appearance, and Tavington could escape. Finding a quiet corner of the mansion to brood in, he finally felt more himself, and stepped outdoors only to find that the Lord General and O'Hara were right in front of him. Cornwallis was still complaining about his wardrobe. He caught O'Hara's excuse.

"Colonel Tavington ordered the arms unloaded first."

__

So I am to be blamed for this too—for putting our soldiers' needs before yours, and for O'Hara's sloth in not undertaking the responsibility himself.

He snatched a glass of wine from a tray and downed it in a gulp. Then he snatched up another. Two of the vapid Charlestown ladies fluttered toward him and he sought to evade them. He found himself walking into Wilkins' broad back.

"Colonel!" Wilkins greeted him with a wide and not entirely sober grin. "Isn't this a mighty fine party?"

"Extraordinary."

Wilkins waved a well-dressed civilian over. "Stephen! Come here and meet Colonel Tavington!" The stranger was a sensible-looking man of about his own age. "Colonel Tavington, this is my friend Stephen DeLancey, judge of the King's Bench of Charlestown. Stephen, this is my commander, Colonel Tavington."

DeLancey bowed, "Your servant, sir."

Tavington bowed, eyeing the man curiously. "And yours, sir." _Was this the DeLancey who was formerly betrothed to Miss Wilde?_

Wilkins beamed, all innocence. "I've been telling him all about the Dragoons' exploits, Colonel."

DeLancey, reserved and far more genteel than Wilkins, was paying back Tavington's curiosity with interest. "I have heard a great deal about you, Colonel. It appears we have another mutual acquaintance."

Tavington schooled his face and merely raised an eyebrow. "Indeed, sir?"

"My friend James here has just told me how you extricated Elizabeth Wilde and her sisters from an awkward situation back in July. A pity they had to leave Arcadia: it is such a beautiful place."

__

Elizabeth! He certainly makes free with her name!

Tavington attempted polite indifference. "You are acquainted with Miss Wilde, then?"

"Very well, indeed," DeLancey replied, with a significant nod, "_Elizabeth_ and my sisters attended school together. We have been friends since we were children. I was relieved to hear that she has severed her engagement to a man unworthy of her." 

__

Ah, thought Tavington, _evidently it _was_ this DeLancey._

Wilkins grin faded slightly, as he became conscious of the growing tension.

Tavington smiled frostily, "I agree that not many men could be called worthy of Miss Wilde. However, a rational man will not forgo the company of a charming and cultivated woman simply because she is too good for him. Calling on Miss Wilde and her sisters is one of my greatest pleasures."

DeLancey laughed harshly. "Calling on her at the house of that harpy aunt of hers! Your reputation for bravery is well deserved!"

Wilkins protested, "Stephen, Miss Everleigh is my aunt, too, and she may be---"

DeLancey was all charm to Wilkins, pointedly ignoring Tavington. "Sorry, James, no offense. I meant to say that your Aunt Sarah Jane Minerva is an overwhelming personality. She certainly cut me to ribbons the times I was there."

Wilkins chuckled, mollified. "Well, Colonel Tavington seems to get on pretty well with her. She even gave a dinner party for him after the victory at Camden."

The wine DeLancey was drinking appeared to have grown sour in his mouth. He ground out, "How very-- gracious of her. Perhaps she recognizes a kindred spirit."

Tavington smirked, triumphant. "Perhaps. I find her challenging, yes, but also a stimulating and interesting lady. Above all, she has provided a safe and comfortable home for Miss Wilde and her sisters. That alone earns her my warmest esteem." He bowed, "A pleasure, indeed, to meet a _former_ friend of Miss Wilde's." He gave his captain an uncommonly gracious smile. "Captain Wilkins."

He walked away, congratulating himself on routing a potential rival. Finding a liveried servant with a tray, he helped himself to yet another drink. An unwelcome thought crossed his mind. _What if Miss Wilde had attended and had been happy to see that DeLancey_ _fellow? _Pictures of an untidy scene rose in his imagination, with Miss Wilde tenderly mopping his brow after he had thoroughly and satisfactorily thrashed DeLancey within an inch of his life, and then thrown him into the harbour. Or perhaps a duel with cold steel—no, Miss Wilde might think that unfair….

While he was mulling it over, Bordon found him. "Sir, some of us are going to Perdita's as soon as we can decently leave." he said, dropping his voice discreetly. "Perhaps you would care to join us."

Tavington considered it. Perdita's was the best brothel in Charlestown, and an object of regular pilgrimage for the British officers in South Carolina. Tavington had been quite taken with the place on his arrival earlier in the year, finding the atmosphere, accents, and accommodations exotic and charming. Right now, however, it was not quite what he wanted, and he found himself with little desire to employ one lady, whilst thinking of another.

"Thank you, Bordon, but no. Another time, perhaps. I'll just turn in early tonight."

Bordon did not press him, but obviously thought his commander could do with some diversion. Reluctantly, the captain said, "Well, goodnight then, sir."

"Goodnight, Bordon." He strayed along the garden walk, thinking—no, brooding. _No-- sulking,_ he admitted to himself. _At least that's what my old nursemaid Nan would have called it._ Laughing at himself at little, he admired the moonlit rose garden, imagining what he could do with a hundredth of the Lord General's land grant. _I wonder if Arcadia had a rose garden. I never took the time to look._

The two pretty imbeciles he had previously escaped appeared at either side of him, and besieged him with their attempts at flirtation. He surrendered to the inevitable boredom, keeping alert for the frequent passage of the wine trays. 

A ball of light blossomed from the supply ship in harbour, followed by the sound of a violent explosion.

"Fireworks!" trilled an unappetising female. "Lovely!"

Tavington gulped his wine, dashed down the glass, and thought, _he'll find a way to blame me for this as well_. He concluded that the only way to make the rest of evening supportable would be to accomplish what he had so well begun: he would drink himself into a stupour.


	13. Chapter Thirteen: Honourable Intentions

Disclaimer: I do not own the rights to The Patriot, but I have the right to make my characters do as I wish. CHAPTER THIRTEEN: Honourable Intentions ****

"Well," asked an eager Julia, "was it wonderful?" 

"No."

Her face fell. She uncurled herself from the branch of the peach tree where she had been waiting for him, and slid to the ground. "It hasn't been very wonderful here, either. Jane, Mary, Frank, and the baby were all sick at once. None of us got much sleep."

Tavington understood all too well. He had returned to Fort Carolina to find a third of his command unfit for duty. Between malaria and yellow fever, the army's strength was drastically reduced. He himself had had a touch of fever, and he had heard that the Lord General had taken to his bed.

"But you and your sisters are well, I hope?"

"We are well enough, thank you. But Lilabet's been a little cross lately. She's been talking to that Mr. Pangbourne and it always upsets her. He's with her and Aunt Sarah Jane Minerva now."

"Who is Mr. Pangbourne?" Tavington asked, as Julia accompanied him up the walk.

"A lawyer. Aunt says he's living proof Jack Cade was right, whatever that means."

Tavington laughed. Julia tugged on his sleeve.

"That's not fair. Nobody will tell me the joke."

Tavington stopped and lowered his voice. "Jack Cade was a rebel long ago in England, and in a play by Shakespeare one of his followers says, '_The first thing we do, let's_ _kill all the lawyers_.'"

Julia giggled. At that moment, the front door opened, and a short, middle-aged man came down the steps. He gave Tavington a distant nod, and Julia a pat on the head. 

"Good-day to you, little lady."

Julia glared furiously after him. She took off her cap, shook out her hair, and replaced the cap with ostentatious display. She sulked to Tavington, "I hate being patted on the head. It's demeaning. And I dislike strangers putting their hands on me anyway. I am not a doll."

Tavington forbore to smile. "No, you are not a doll. It is only your short stature which induces people to conveniently rest their hands upon your head."

She laughed, her good humour restored. She took him by the hand and led him into the house.

Miss Wilde and Miss Everleigh were both in the parlour, and the air was thick with the sort of tension that lingers after quarrels. Though both women were silent, they did not seem angry with one another. Miss Wilde was very pleased to see him, though shaking off her unhappy mood with difficulty. He thought at first she was wearing an unseasonably heavy shawl over one shoulder, until he looked closer and saw that it was an infant cradled against her.

"Colonel, how happy we are to see you. Oh," she smiled, noticing his bemused gaze. "Let me present Miss Caroline Montgomery, who is visiting us from upstairs today. Charlotte needs her sleep, and Amelia and Zilphah have taken the other children out to study plants." She saw Julia, attempting to be invisible behind Tavington. 'I see that not everyone went along. Well, come in and sit with us, Julia. You can hold Caroline for awhile."

"Thank you so much," said Julia with enough sarcasm to earn a reproving look from her sister, and a hard one from her aunt.

"Colonel Tavington," said the old lady, "you are just what we need, after a morning with that wretch Pangbourne. I hope your time in Charlestown was spent pleasantly?"

"Quite," said Tavington briefly. Miss Everleigh laughed.

"Not one for balls, are you? Or was it the company that failed to please?"

"It was indeed more business than pleasure, madam. And I care little for dancing anyway."

"Infamous!" cried Miss Everleigh. "A good-looking man who refuses to dance has failed in his duty to womankind! You should have been marched around the wallflowers and been made to dance with every one!"

Tavington managed a smile. "A fearful prospect for the ladies. It would be punishment for them rather than for me. But indeed, I had little reason to dance. As you may know, a supply ship was blown up before our eyes, and the Lord General was very angry at the loss of his wardrobe."

Miss Wilde asked, "But why should he be angry with you? How could it possibly be your fault if the Royal Navy cannot defend its own ships? That sounds most irrational."

"Perhaps so, Miss Wilde, but it is no secret that I am not in the Lord General's good books."

"He's probably just jealous," declared Julia. She was rocking the baby a little too enthusiastically, and Miss Wilde took the infant back from her.

"Yes, indeed," agreed Tavington sardonically. "With his title, his wealth, and his one hundred thousand acre land grant, he has every reason to envy me." He leaned closer to Miss Wilde, admiring the little girl in her arms. She was an exquisitely pretty thing, with enormous blue eyes and a cap of golden hair. The baby took note of Tavington , and dimpled at him delightfully.

"Would you like to hold her?" offered Miss Wilde. She smiled at his hesitation, and gave him the child, showing him how to support the head. He had never held any human being so fragile or so young. It was not an unpleasant sensation, and in addition, he was sure that kindness to children would be noted and appreciated by Miss Wilde. The child smiled, nestled closer, opened its enchanting pink mouth, and emitted a sour-smelling bubble of milky fluid over the front of Tavington's uniform jacket. The Montgomerys had struck again.

"Oh dear!" exclaimed Miss Wilde, retrieving the infant and handing a cloth to Tavington.

"Ha!" laughed Miss Everleigh. "A taste of the joys of fatherhood! At least you didn't throw the little brat out the window!" 

"She is not a brat, Aunt," protested Miss Wilde, who then saw the look of disgust on Julia's face. "Julia, she's just an innocent infant, and I've wiped your face and worse in my time, so don't turn up your nose at her, my dear!"

"Lilabet!" cried Julia, rising indignantly to her feet. "I can't believe you said that in front of Colonel Tavington! I am so mortified!"

"Oh, sit down, Julia," said Miss Everleigh. "There isn't a human being who hasn't been a smelly, puking infant, so don't get all high and mighty."

Tavington wiped the unappealing mess from his jacket, and tried to hide his confusion. "No harm done. I've had worse spilled on my uniform." He caught the amusement in Miss Wilde's eye and shrugged. "Much worse, in fact."

"Lizzie," said Miss Everleigh. "That baby will be fussing soon. Why don't you and Julia take her back up to Charlotte? I am sure the Colonel and I can find something to talk about."

Miss Wilde stared at her aunt, who stared back at her with an unblinking, sphinx-like gaze. Miss Wilde looked helplessly at Tavington, murmured an embarrassed "Excuse us, Colonel," and carried the baby out, a reluctant and bewildered Julia following.

Miss Everleigh sat back comfortably in her throne of a chair, and transferred her bright black stare to Tavington. Uneasily anticipating what might ensue, Tavington forced himself not to fidget.

The silence lengthened. Miss Everleigh's wrinkled lips curled in a thoroughly unpleasant smile, and Tavington recalled just how malicious she could be. He, for his part, assumed his most supercilious expression of polite boredom. 

"By rights," began Miss Everleigh, "it should be Lizzie's father or even her brother speaking to you, but the poor girl has no one but me."

Tavington waited. Miss Everleigh, quite undismayed by his silence, continued after a moment. "Well, Colonel? _Do_ you have any intentions? And if so, are they of the honourable kind?" She seemed quite willing to sit staring at him all day, and Tavington thought it best to be honest.

"I have the greatest regard and esteem for Miss Wilde. Nothing could give me greater pleasure than spending the rest of my life in her company. However, I am not in a position to offer her marriage at the present time."

"Why not?" Miss Everleigh asked bluntly. "If you have a previous entanglement, it would be best if you left this house, and never came back. It must be evident to you that Lizzie loves you. I won't have you trifling with her for a summer's sport."

"I am not trifling with her, and I do not regard her as an object of sport. Miss Wilde is everything I could wish or hope for in a wife. Indeed, she is far too good for me."

"Pah!" snapped Miss Everleigh, with an angry spark in her eyes. "Don't give me that shopworn excuse! Too good for you indeed! There aren't many women who aren't too good for most men! That never stopped a man from pursuing a woman he really wanted. What is the real issue, then?"

"I cannot afford to marry." There, the humiliating truth had been spoken. Miss Everleigh looked at him for a while, weighing his words.

"All right," she said. "Now what exactly do you mean by that? Are you saying that you are in debt, that your family ties make it inconvenient, or that your income is insufficient to support Lizzie?"

"I mean I have no fortune, no family, and nothing but my pay. I cannot provide Miss Wilde with the kind of life to which she is accustomed."

"Do you think she will enjoy becoming accustomed to the kind of life she is living here under my roof?" He looked at her, startled. Miss Everleigh continued ruthlessly. "Because that is her alternative. Unless she marries, Lizzie bids fair to becoming a poor relation, pressed into service as an old woman's companion, or spending a lifetime caring for and teaching other people's children. I suppose," she continued, with a sneer, "she might obtain employment at some school, but even that is unlikely, with her two sisters in tow. No," she said, "she will be someone's dependent, and treated as such."

Tavington felt himself becoming angry, despite his best efforts. "After the war is over and won, she can return to Arcadia, where she is mistress."

Miss Everleigh gave a nasty laugh. "From what Mr. Pangbourne tells us, that is not too likely, either." Tavington could not hide his surprise. "Between her father's will, her mother's will, the fact that she is a woman and her sisters are minors, and no one seems to know who their guardians are, it is not at all clear _who _owns Arcadia. Possibly my nephew Ned Everleigh, but he's off in Jamaica, and would never leave his sugar plantation and slave concubines long enough to do anything but send an agent to sell Arcadia and everything in it. He certainly would never offer the girls a home, nor would any home of his be a fit place for a decent woman." She gave Tavington a considering stare. "Of course, John Wilde had some kin in England, but no one knows them well enough to say if they would want the place or not."

"What you are saying is if the place were in her possession, it is unlikely there would be any legal challenge."

"But the place is not currently in her possession." She gave him a patronising smile. "I really think you should speak to Lizzie about this. Plainly, too, as you have spoken to me. You may find that living on a soldier's pay with a man she finds agreeable holds no terrors for her."

"No, it does not," said Miss Wilde, from the doorway. She looked unhappily at Tavington. "Would you please come walking with me, Colonel?"

"Not necessary, Lizzie." Miss Everleigh rose from her chair with the help of her stick, and nodded to Tavington. "I was just leaving. I find a nap very refreshing after a stimulating conversation." She left slowly, her stick tapping down the hall.

Miss Wilde made no move to enter the parlour. "Did she really---did she ask you your intentions? She had threatened to do so, but I thought it one of her cruel jokes."

"She asked me my intentions, and it was no joke."

"I am very sorry for it. I know how very disagreeable it is to be close questioned on a personal matter---"

"I think she is right, and that we should discuss this situation frankly."

"Very well." She came into the parlour and sat on the sofa beside him, looking at the floor. 

He cleared his throat. "Your aunt asked me if I had serious intentions concerning you. I assured her of my sentiments—" She looked up at him, cheeks flushing. He felt a variety of unexplored emotions pounding in his chest, constricting his throat. He refused to be unmanned, even by tenderness, and struggled to preserve his usual cool demeanour. He cleared his throat again, and said. "But I told her the truth, as I have previously told you: I have not money enough to marry and provide the lavish manner of living you enjoyed at Arcadia.' She looked at him and shook her head, evidently distressed that he would think that material. He pressed on, "Back in the 17th Light Dragoons, the regiment I originally came from, it was very nearly all I could do to keep up my uniform and horse, and pay my mess fees. Most officers," he said bitterly, "have sufficient private incomes to afford these items without embarrassment. I am not so fortunate."

"Yes," she said, quickly and earnestly, "you told me of your family situation, but you cannot imagine that I care only for---" She stopped in confusion, and he continued.

"While my pay has increased with my rank, it is still, relatively speaking, a modest income. Nor are my prospects very promising. After the last war, the Crown gave out land grants, and I have been hoping for one, but with the Lord General so unfavourably disposed to me---"

She broke in. "There are other possibilities." 

"We were discussing your possession of Arcadia. Your aunt seems to believe that there is some legal tangle there."

She laughed without mirth. "Oh yes, quite a tangle. I had been hoping to sell Arcadia."

"What! Sell it! But why? When the war is over---"

She looked at him, exasperated. "When the war is over! What then?" She calmed herself, and continued. "Colonel, even if all we hope for comes to pass-- the King restored in authority, and rebellion utterly put down throughout the Colonies-- it is perfectly clear that I can never live at Arcadia again." She swallowed, and sighed unhappily. "How can I ever again have decent human relations with my neighbors who robbed me? The King may rule the Colonies, but he cannot change my neighbors' hatred to friendship. And more seriously--" she hesitated.

"What?"

"More serious is the fact that I am now at blood feud with the Crawfords." Seeing his astonishment, she said, rather bitingly. "I suppose these things are handled quite differently in England. You probably just take one another to court, but that it not how it is here in the Southern Colonies. The Crawfords look upon me as a mortal enemy, and hold me responsible for the death of one of their own."

"How can they possibly hold you-----That is too absurd!"

"_Colonel, I was seen_!" She drew breath, rose, and began pacing around the room. Visibly attempting to maintain her composure, she went on. "There were survivors of the rebels' attack the day you brought me to Camden. They saw me, and Melly, and Julia, with you and the Dragoons. They saw Melly with a pistol in her hand. They saw that we were not prisoners. They must know that it was I who told you that the Crawfords supported the rebellion, and that it was I who caused the Crawfords to be burned out. I was such a stupid, spiteful fool to tell you I knew the men who robbed us!"

Tavington's astonishment had turned to anger. Walking over to the window where she stood, he turned her to face him. "And how can you imagine that I would not protect you? Why should you fear those cowards?" She would not meet his gaze. His voice dropped to a growl, and his grip tightened. "Have you been threatened?"

She became more agitated yet, and pulled away from him. "I will show you," she said, "but you must promise me to say nothing to anyone else. They would be so frightened." She left the room, and he heard her light quick step on the stairs. In a moment, she had returned and proffered a folded piece of paper.

Tavington smoothed the dirty, creased message back, and read: "_If you were a Man we wud hang you Don ever com back you murderin Tory Hore We no you ar seein that Bloody Tavington We will kill him and show you and your Sisters wat we do to Traytors."_

He sneered, "Not very elegantly put, but clear enough. When did you receive this?"

"Monday afternoon. It came with the regular post. Luckily it had my name on it. I don't believe anyone but Uncle Ganymede saw it, and I really have no idea if he can read or not. He has given no indication that he knows what the message contained." 

"Sneaking cowards, to threaten a woman!"

"Yes, yes, that's perfectly true." She sighed and sank back onto the sofa. He pocketed the message, and sat beside her, taking her hand. She continued. "But you must see, Colonel, that not only can I not return, I do not _want_ to return. I hate the thought of living there among people I detest and who detest me. Yes, I am sure they would never dare face you, but you could not always be there to protect me. Better to let it go, and start anew."

She squeezed his hand and looked at him with a diffidence unusual for her. "Since my aunt has subjected you to an inquisition as to your prospects, it is only fair that I be open about mine."

"She has expressed herself eloquently on the subject."

"My aunt may think she knows everything, Colonel, but she does not." She gave him a faint, wicked smile. "Do remember that chest you retrieved for me the day we met?"

He smiled back, pleased at her improved spirits. "The very dirty, cobwebbed object—heavy for its size?"

"The very one. My mother was a prudent woman, and had grave doubts about the outcome of the war. She secreted that chest as a resource for us all in case the worst came to pass."

"You told me there were important documents in it and some money."

"There is some money for common expenses. The chest also contains two thousand gold guineas."

"Good God!" he exclaimed. "No wonder it was so heavy. Had any one known what was in that chest, the entire county would have been at our heels!" He laughed. "Are there any other wonders for you to reveal?"

"Yes," she said, her courage evidently rising. "The documents in the chest are largely what you might expect: the deed to Arcadia, the wills of my father and my mother, the letter concerning my brother's death at the battle of Brandywine. There is also correspondence with Mother's bank in Charlestown, which shows a balance to her account of a little over two thousand pounds, and some British securities which could be worth between three to five thousand pounds. My mother was able to place my name on these assets, and they are comparatively easily available to us. My sisters and I are not destitute, by any measure."

He began to feel, for the first time in many years, a faint thrill of hope.

She went on, "You see now, why I wanted none of the rest of my family to know about this. Every male member of my family would try to claim guardianship of my sisters and their share of the money. After all the disputes were settled, there might be nothing left for the girls. Despite what the law may say, I think I can protect their interests as well as my Uncle Ned in Jamaica, or even my Cousin James."

"And that is not all. My father, you see, had a project in mind, to be undertaken after the war. He and Richard were to go west over the mountains, and begin a study of the plants and animals in the territories south of the Ohio River. He was in communication with a very old friend, Judge Richard Henderson, who heads the Transylvania Land Company. Judge Henderson treated with the Indians for a large purchase of land in Kentucky. My father's share was ten thousand acres. The grant papers are in my possession, and after arriving here in Camden, I wrote to Judge Henderson to see if he would honour our inheritance rights to the property."

"Have you heard from him?"

"No," she shook her head, "but very likely he has not yet even received my letter. If the letter reaches him, it will undoubtedly be some time before I receive a reply." She moved closer to him. "But I am very hopeful. The judge is a good and honourable man, and he knows us. It is good land, too, apparently. Kentucky is too far north for cotton or indigo, but tobacco does well there, and I know all about tobacco farming. We would have more than sufficient funds to equip ourselves and travel there." She reddened again, realising what she had implied, and faltered, "I mean, my sisters and I could—" She stopped, and looked at him, unable to continue.

Tavington was quietly elated. It was a possibility: a reasonable one. The money alone made a great difference in their situation. With a few words she had swept away a mountain of obstacles and years of waiting. "This is—very good news," he said slowly, gradually comprehending that his secret longings could be declared openly and at once. Miss Wilde's smile became radiant. Tavington slid his arm around her shoulders, and pulled her gently against him, hardly daring to believe his good fortune. "This changes our prospects markedly. Still, I think it very important to obtain a land grant through the Crown. After the war, land ownership will undergo great changes, and who knows what may happen to your friend in Kentucky?" He shook his head, and then, taking her hand, he turned it over and pressed a lingering kiss into her palm. She drew a long, shuddering breath. He closed her hand, as if giving her the kiss to keep, and looked at her, feeling a smile beginning at the corners of his mouth. "But I put the cart before the horse. My dear Miss Wilde-- my dearest, sweetest Elizabeth, knowing what you know of our mutual prospects, will you have me? There is no one but you whom I would wish for my friend, partner, and beloved wife."

"I would have you, William," she whispered, "knowing what I know of _you_." She turned her face up to him trustingly, and he caught her lips with his--very sweet, very agreeable, indeed. He kissed her again; brushing lightly against her upper lip, and suckling gently on the lower. Then her mouth opened like a flower; and he groaned with passion, crushing her back against the arm of the sofa. Exhilaration at having someone of his own beat in his chest like wings, exhilaration of a kind he had never before felt, except when risking his life in battle. _I need never be alone ever again_. The taste of her was beyond words, and he kissed her hungrily; while her hands fluttered at his arms and then his shoulders, and finally clasped firmly around his back, pressing him to her heart.

There was a loud gasp that he suddenly realized had not issued either from his newly betrothed or himself. Starting up, Tavington and Elizabeth found themselves observed by seven pairs of astonished eyes: Amelia had returned with the Montgomery children and their nursemaid, all of them bedecked with wilting, disreputable plant specimens. 

Elizabeth Wilde recovered first, "Hello, children. Did you have a nice walk?" Tavington gave a reluctant laugh, and only held her the closer.

Amelia gasped again, and then started pulling at her charges. "Upstairs, children, now! Lilabet and the Colonel are occupied." With Zilphah pushing from behind, the two of them managed to herd the little ones towards the stairs, despite the frank curiosity of the two older Montgomery girls, and the disgust of their brother George. 

As they thumped their way up the steps, Jane Montgomery asked Amelia, "Is he spreading the pollen on her now?"

Elizabeth buried her face in her hands. Tavington stroked her hair, slightly embarrassed, but amused in the main. He whispered in her ear, "When we _are _married, my love, I promise you we shall have a door that locks!"

Author's notes: 

Judge Richard Henderson and the Transylvania Land Company were real. The Treaty of Sycamore Shoals was the largest private land transaction in U. S. ( or possibly world) history, involving the sale of 20 million acres. At this particular time, no tribe actually lived in most of what is now the commonwealth of Kentucky, but it was used for common hunting lands. After completing the purchase, Judge Henderson had the land explored by his agent, Daniel Boone.

A guinea was a gold British coin of the time, worth one pound and one shilling. It weighed 8.35 grams, so 2000 of them would weigh 16.7 kilograms, or about 37 pounds. That certainly was no problem for Tavington to carry, but was surprisingly heavy for the size of the chest. 2000 guineas would be worth 2100 pounds. It is hard to give relative values, because the value of money has changed, and today's expenses are so very different, but at the time, that would equal about $10500, and would be worth many times that today. In short, a serious amount of money. 

I have made Tavington's original regiment the 17th Light Dragoons as a tribute to DocM, who gives a compelling argument for this in a footnote to her story, _The Loyal Daughter_. "I can't help but think Will would LOVE the 17th 's cute little helmet with the skull-and crossbones badge! It's very _him,_ somehow…"

Thank you again to all my reviewers—Zubeneschamali, Redone, Foodie, Slytherin Dragoon, Vetarru Cetkarr, JaneyQ, Tara Rose, Runespoor Oracle, VivienneTavington, Anchovy Eater, Lintasare, and Badassgothicgirl. I very much appreciate all of you taking the time to give me your kind words and advice. Good ideas are always welcome, and they give me encouragement when Tavington's adventures become too arduous.


	14. Chapter Fourteen: I Only Am Escaped Alon...

_Disclaimer: I do not own the rights to The Patriot. The producers of the film have no rights to King's Mountain. _  
  
CHAPTER FOURTEEN: I Only Am Escaped Alone to Tell Thee 

For days, Tavington had been urging the Lord General to allow him to ride north to look for Major Ferguson and the American Volunteers. 

A message from his friend had come through, telling of a large number of rebels massing on the North Carolina side of the border. Cornwallis, sick himself, and anxious about the condition of his army, had refused permission until more men had recovered.

Tavington chafed at the delay. He understood the Lord General's concerns, and shared them; but all his instincts were telling him that something very wrong had happened. He made restless visits to the hospital tent, seeing who was fit enough for duty, until one of the surgeons took him aside, and told him that these visits were not helpful.

At least the Lord General had decided that when the army was fit enough for large-scale operations, they would be moving into North Carolina. They would be pursuing the rebel regular army, which had withdrawn altogether from South Carolina. Enough troops were being left behind to keep the rebel militia under control. Tavington had his reservations about this. Certainly Camden should be safe, with the garrison of Fort Carolina; and some of the forts, like Ninety-Six. Charlestown obviously was still secure, Loyalist bastion that is was. 

With some reluctance, he and Elizabeth had concluded that while the war lasted, their engagement must be only an engagement. He would be going north, and living hard on the march. Even with an army to protect them, baggage trains and the non-combatants who traveled with them were always vulnerable. He needed to know that Elizabeth was safe and comfortable. Elizabeth was unconcerned about her own privations, but keenly aware of the risks to her sisters. It was clearly understood between them that when he and Elizabeth could make a home together, her sisters would be part of their family. For the next few months, at least, there would be considerable communication with Fort Carolina, so he hoped to be able to make a visit or two. 

He had also decided that it would be wrong to marry her and then ride away. Giving her his name would make her a target for the rebels. Furthermore, if the worst should happen to him, he did not think it right to leave her widowed; possibly burdened with a child to raise alone. Elizabeth had felt somewhat differently on the subject, but he would not be moved. 

He had looked into the Transylvania Land Company himself, knowing how much hope Elizabeth had invested in her land grant. The news was not good: not only the royal governors, but also the rebel legislatures of Virginia and North Carolina had declared the Treaty of Sycamore Shoals invalid, and Judge Henderson's holdings illegal. Virginia had apparently simply annexed the Judge's purchases. He had said nothing to Elizabeth. After the war, the government might reconsider the issue, but for now, the Kentucky plan seemed a frail reed to lean upon.

Finally, he was summoned by the Lord General. Cornwallis, though impeccably groomed as always, looked pale and feverish, and sat wearily in his chair the entire time.

"Well, Colonel, I shall grant your request," he said. "Take the Dragoons, and some of the infantry from the 33rd. Go find Ferguson and bring him in."

"Have there been any further dispatches from him?"

"None." Cornwallis spoke slowly, and Tavington could discern the fatigued tremors his commander tried to conceal. "Whatever he has come across, it cannot be the Colonial regulars. More likely it is militia, probably under Campbell, and that barbarian Cleveland."

"I shall set out at once, my lord." Bowing, he left quickly, his mind in turmoil. Cleveland was a notorious militia leader, known for his hangings and mutilations of Loyalists. It was said that he found great sport in giving prisoners a choice of hanging or cutting off their own ears. He felt a surge of loathing. These were the people that the Lord General called brethren.

He looked forward to seeing Ferguson again. It would be such a pleasure to introduce Elizabeth to him. Knowing Patrick's reputation with the fair sex, it was just as well that she was now safely engaged. He chuckled a little, imagining Patrick's sharp wit sparring with Miss Everleigh's. He wondered if she would repeat her remarks about Scotsmen to his face. Very likely. Patrick's ripostes should be spectacular.
    
    *** 

Within days they were back. The silence in the camp showed that their bad news had flown before them. He made his report to the Lord General, who listened, sickened and appalled. Tavington had been three days too late. The extent of the disaster at King's Mountain was still unfolding, but it was already bad enough: over a thousand lost, killed or captured. The American Volunteers had been destroyed. His friend, Patrick Ferguson, surrounded and leading a last desperate charge to break the rebel line, had gone down with at least eleven bullets in him. The slaughter of the Loyalists had continued even after the white flag was raised.

The Lord General regarded him grimly at this point. Tavington paused, and thought bitterly, _He is thinking that I began this, by shooting those prisoners at Waxhaws. If he says it aloud, I shall kill him on the spot and damn the consequences._ His lordship said nothing, however, plainly considering it enough to leave Tavington to his own reflections.

The survivors of the battle had told him that when the white flag was raised, the rebels had shouted, "Give them Tavington's quarter!" It was burned into his mind like a slave brand. The hatred he had felt before for the rebels was nothing to what he felt now.

He continued his report. "The enemy buried the dead in a careless fashion, throwing them into piles and covering them with logs and rocks. The wolves and hogs gathered, and devoured what they could reach. Some of our wounded left on the field were eaten alive."

He flinched at the memory. It would be long before he would be able to eat pork.

"Some of the men taken prisoner managed to escape and have told of abominable ill-usage. Major Ferguson's body was stripped naked and insulted by some of the rebels." Cornwallis looked a question at him. "They pissed on his remains, my lord." The general shut his eyes and leaned back in his chair. "Some of the prisoners were hacked at randomly by their captors. One man's son was killed before his eyes, and then the man's own arms were lopped off. One of our surgeons was beaten for trying to tend our wounded." He swallowed, and went on. "Apparently, some of our Loyalist officers have been hanged."

Cornwallis let out a deep breath. "Infamous, infamous…." His voice trailed away. He frowned, "These rebel atrocities will deal a crippling blow to the King's cause…" He rubbed his eyes, and then straightened. "Look to yourself and your men, Colonel. We will have hard work before us in the months to come."
    
    ***

Tavington left headquarters and signed to Wilkins, who was waiting outside. The two men rode silently into Camden.

The Everleigh house was filled with women, children, and the elderly. The entire clan and all its connections had gathered to share rumours. Tavington and Wilkins made their way through the press in the hall and entered the parlour. Conversation stopped at the sight of them. Charlotte Montgomery rose to her feet unsteadily; and then seeing their faces, collapsed to her knees with a wild scream.

"Oh, my God, oh, my God! It is true!" She sobbed: loud, whooping, ugly cries, which left her gasping for breath. "Did they really hang him? How could they hang him? Oh, my God!"

A grey-haired woman knelt by her and held her, shaking with silent tears. 

Wilkins said, in a low voice, "That's Mary Montgomery, the lieutenant's mother, sir." Tavington nodded. The entire room was murmuring, anxious whispers mixed with children's frightened questions, and an occasional sharp cry.

Charlotte Montgomery wailed at Tavington, "Why didn't you save him? _Where were you?_" 

Tavington could think of nothing comforting to say to this woman. Wilkins bent over her gently, and she struck out at him, moaning, "What did they do with his body?"

Miss Everleigh took charge. "James, help Charlotte upstairs. George, take care of your Grandmamma."

Charlotte Montgomery sobbed out, as Wilkins tried to get her to her feet, "What will become of us? What will happen to my children?"

"You'll stay right here where you are, Charlotte," Miss Everleigh told her crisply. "Nobody's going to turn you out. Now, get upstairs and try to sleep. Go with her, Mary." Wilkins half-carried Charlotte from the room; and George followed behind, holding his grandmother's arm.

A sour-faced female relation sniffed, "You'd think Charlotte was the first woman who ever lost a husband!"

Miss Everleigh snarled, "Well, he's the first husband _she_ ever lost, _so hold your tongue_!"

Elizabeth had come to Tavington's side, and slipped her arm into his, holding him close. Looking at her was like finding water in the desert. 

Miss Everleigh took notice of him. "I am sorry about your friend, Colonel. I heard he died well."

Tavington remembered what the escaped prisoner told him of Ferguson's last words. _"I will never yield to such a damned banditti!_" _Oh, Patrick!_

"Yes, very well indeed, Madam," he said aloud.

"That's more than most can claim."

"I was very much looking forward to presenting him to you and to Elizabeth."

Miss Everleigh smiled oddly. "Well, if there is an afterlife, I shall make a point of seeking his acquaintance." She gave a grim laugh, "But don't feel obliged to get there ahead of me to make the introductions!"

Wilkins came back into the parlour. Miss Everleigh looked him over and said to Elizabeth. "The Colonel and your cousin look like they haven't had a decent meal in awhile. Take them into the next room and feed them."

A huge amount of food was laid out on the table and sideboard: plates of cold meat, beaten biscuits, baked yams, cakes, green salads. Wilkins caught his colonel's eye and quietly pushed the platter of ham out of sight. Elizabeth helped them to food and drink, and then sat down by Tavington, her hand resting gently on his back. Wilkins sat down wearily across the table from them. Both men were glad of the food, and ate their way through it without words. Various family members came in and out of the dining room, filling plates, and talking softly. Some looked like they wanted to speak with Tavington or Wilkins, but Elizabeth waved them away quietly, and they were left in peace.

Wilkins finished, and sat staring at his empty plate. After a while, he muttered, "I'll go have a word with the children," and rose to leave. Elizabeth nodded.

Tavington played with the last of his meal, too tired to respond. He prodded his pound cake with a fork, and observed, "You did not make this."

"No," Elizabeth answered softly, "Hetty doesn't want me in the kitchen."

"Pity," he said, while she stroked his back.

"I have been thinking," she began, "that perhaps we should reconsider our decision to postpone our marriage. However difficult the road ahead, I would rather be with you. And you would have someone to look after you properly."

Tavington was still, thinking over the events of the last few days, and trying to put his feelings into words.

"My friend Patrick had someone to look after him. Her name was Sal. She was just a—she was a woman of the camp, but they cared for each other." Tavington did not mention Patrick's other girl, the one named Polly. While Elizabeth might understand about one mistress, he could not quite trust her to handle two.

He cleared his throat, and went on, "She went everywhere with him. She was there at the end, at King's Mountain. A rebel shot her down as she tended the wounded. I suppose," he sneered bitterly, "her bright red hair made her an easy target for one of the vaunted rebel marksmen. The men who buried Patrick laid her in the same grave."

"Then they are together," Elizabeth said quietly.

"_Do you imagine he would have been pleased_?" he nearly shouted. Heads swiveled in their direction. Elizabeth shook her head at them, and the dining room quickly emptied. 

Tavington struggled to compose himself. He seized Elizabeth's hand and kissed it fiercely. "Forgive me for raising my voice to you. The thought of you in such a situation is too much for me to bear. Patrick would have wanted Sal to escape, to be safe, to be happy; even with another. You must never think me more selfish." He pressed her hand to his heart. "Do not speak of this again."

"No," she submitted sadly, "not if it distresses you so." 

She looked past him, and Tavington turned to see David McKay in the doorway.

"Sir, you are wanted back at camp," the boy said, clearly oppressed by the mournful atmosphere of the house and company. He had been shocked by what they had found on arriving at King's Mountain. He had also been one of those ill with fever prior to the unsuccessful ride to Ferguson's relief, and now appeared all sallow skin and bones.

"Thank you, Mr. McKay," Tavington said without expression. He brought Elizabeth hand gently to his lips. "I must be on my way."

"I will see you out," she murmured. Looking again at McKay, she asked Tavington, "Could not Mr. McKay stay a moment and have something to eat? He looks—" she stopped herself from making a personal remark.

__

Yes, he looks half-dead on his feet, thought Tavington. He spoke to the young officer, "All right, but be quick about it."

"Thank you sir—and ma'am," the boy said, happily surprised at the prospect of an uncommonly good meal. Elizabeth stepped to the dining room doorway and looked out.

"Melly," she called, "could you look after Mr. McKay? The Colonel says he may stay long enough for some refreshment. Mr. McKay, you will, of course, remember my sister Amelia from the day we met at Arcadia."

The girl slipped into the room and quietly greeted the boy. He appeared quite stunned at her transformation, and thanked her effusively, if not very fluently, for her hospitality. 

Tavington rose from his chair wearily, and followed Elizabeth to the hall.

"What about Mrs. Montgomery's own family? Can they not assist her?"

"Ah, Charlotte's family. They are somewhat at odds at the moment."

"They are rebels, I take it."

"Let us call them Whigs. It sounds better when speaking of the family of a relation by marriage. I have not heard of any of them actually being in arms against the King." He grunted, unimpressed. "I imagine now, with Frank dead, and thus the principal cause of their estrangement removed, they will rally about her fairly soon."

Julia was sitting on the staircase. Her small, tear-stained face was peering at them anxiously from in between the posts of the baluster. 

"Julia," said Elizabeth, "I know it's distressing to be with your cousins for very long. Mr. McKay is in the dining room with Melly, and I am sure he would like to see you again. You would feel better if you had something yourself."

Julia shook her head and looked at Tavington. "I'm not hungry," she whispered. "I'm afraid."

Tavington reached through the posts to take her hand. Julia clutched his desperately.

She began to babble. "Please, please, don't let anything happen to you. Richard died, and Papa came home hurt and he died, and Mamma died and left us. I try to be brave, but I'm afraid. I'm so afraid all the time that everybody is going to die and I'm going to be all alone. Lilabet and Melly are all I have, and we don't even have a house any more. I don't want anything to happen to you. I want you to marry Lilabet like you promised so you can be my brother, and we can be a real family again. Promise me you won't get killed."

"Julia—" Elizabeth began.

"Promise me!" demanded Julia.

Tavington held her hand and said, "I promise to do my very best to stay alive. I cannot promise that some rebel may not try to kill me."

"Don't you let them!" She stood up and leaned over the rail.

"When Papa went away on his trips, we always kissed him good-bye for luck. Sometimes it worked, and sometimes it didn't, but it can't hurt to try." Tavington could not help smiling as she bent down and solemnly pressed a butterfly-light kiss on his brow. "There," she said seriously, "maybe that will help. Now you, Lilabet."

Elizabeth conditioned gravely, "I promise to kiss him when we are not being watched by the whole family."

"I don't know why you're so particular. Everybody but me has seen you kissing already."

"The dining parlour, Julia, now."

Julia galloped down the steps, paused briefly to allow Elizabeth to dry her face with her handkerchief, and then disappeared into the next room. "Custard!"

"Melly," called Elizabeth, "see that Julia has something besides sweets!"

"Elizabeth," said Tavington, "where is this place where your family cannot see us?"

It was outside, up against the west side of the house, sheltered by the shrubbery. Tavington mastered himself with an effort, not wanting to frighten or hurt her. He pinned her gently but firmly against the wall, and kissed her lightly on lips, cheek, and jaw, before taking her face in his hands, and kissing her deeply, slowly, and sweetly. She made the soft little humming noise that he loved, and held him close; her hands tightening as she instinctively began to claw at him a little. 

When they paused a moment to draw breath, Elizabeth looked up at him, eyes lambent and lips moist and rosy. "Julia is quite right. You are too important to us to permit anything to happen to you. So here is another kiss—for luck."
    
    *** 

Tavington approached the problem of the Ghost with new energy. Though he hated to use British soldiers as bait, it seemed the most effective way to flush out his enemy.

Accordingly, a supply wagon was sent out with a small guard. In the wagon, rather than supplies, was a detachment of infantry. Tavington and a troop of dragoons lay in wait over the crest of a nearby hill. 

The rebels, as predicted, came out of hiding to rob and kill. Sergeant Beckham, a brave young volunteer, defied them as planned, and at the crucial moment, the cover of the wagon was thrown back, and the infantrymen opened fire. As the rebels reeled back, the dragoons charged down upon them, slaying many, and capturing nearly twenty of the rest. Tavington, firing idly at the retreating rebels, was amused to make the luckiest shot of his life, actually bringing down one of the band far beyond pistol range. His men were mightily impressed. Tavington did not disabuse them, but smiled to himself, knowing it to be mere chance.

The Ghost did not seem to be among the dead or the prisoners, but his command had been dealt a heavy blow. Some of the prisoners would be hanged, and the rest sent to the prison hulks, if no one made a decent offer of exchange. One of the prisoners was the parson from the small town of Pembroke. As Tavington remarked to Elizabeth, he was a man who had forgotten all his texts except, "I bring not peace, but a sword."

***

A few days later, he and Bordon returned to camp to find the prisoners being released. A man of middle stature, dressed as a gentleman in a civilian's brown coat, was speaking to O'Hara, and leading the prisoners and a party of horsemen away.

Tavington quickly dismounted and approached O'Hara, fuming.

"General, what is this?"

"Prisoner exchange. He has eighteen of our officers."

Tavington stared after the man in the brown coat. "Who is he? I know him."

O'Hara gave him a hard look. "He is the commander of the militia—your Ghost." Recognition burst over Tavington. _Waxhaws! Will it haunt me forever?_

Tavington drew his sabre reflexively, and started after the fellow. 

"Stay that sword, Colonel!" ordered O'Hara. "He rode in under a white flag for formal parley."

__

White flag, indeed! They dare to ask us to observe it after King's Mountain! Aloud, he muttered, "This is madness!" _Surely O'Hara can see that this man must be stopped now!_

O'Hara was inflexible in matters of military honour. "Harm him and you condemn our officers."

"With respect sir," Tavington pointed out, "he has killed as many officers in the past two months."

"He has shown no aggression here," said O'Hara sternly, "hence he cannot be touched."

"Has he not?" growled Tavington. Stalking after the rebel Colonel, he called out rudely, "You! So you're the Ghost, are you? I remember you! That farm! That stupid little boy!"

The rebel stopped and turned, walking grim-faced back to Tavington. Intent on provoking the man, Tavington unleashed the cruelest taunts at his command.

"Did he die? Hmm?"

His enemy stared at him unmoved, blue eyes brilliant and fearless.

Tavington smirked. "It's an ugly business, doing one's duty, but just occasionally, it's a real pleasure."

The stranger spoke with terrible softness. "Before this war is over, I'm going to kill you."

__

I've hurt you, then, thought Tavington. _Good. _He moved closer, and whispered seductively. "Why wait?" _Pull your pistol,_ he thought, _draw your_ _sword. Make a move, so I can kill you._

"Soon," the rebel said. His voice was a low rumble, like distant thunder. He walked back to his horse, and rode away with his militiamen, leaving Tavington burning with unslaked bloodlust. Two huge dogs ran past him. Mars and Jupiter had chosen to side with the rebels.

Tavington felt vindicated by the event, when it was discovered that the eighteen British officers were scarecrows, and the whole prisoner exchange had been an elaborate charade at the Lord General's expense. Torn between well-concealed glee at his superior's discomfiture, and rage that a dangerous enemy had been irresponsibly left at large, he reported to the Lord General for further orders.

Cornwallis, dressed in a splendid banyan, was having a working dinner at his desk. A valet was in attendance. His lordship wasted not a moment before lashing out at Tavington.

"My reputation suffers because of your incompetence. That man insults me!"

__

All this for a pair of useless hounds? thought Tavington, with disgust. Choosing his words carefully, he replied, "Quite impressive for a farmer with a pitchfork, wouldn't you say, my lord?"

"I want you to find him. I want you to capture him!" Unwillingly, Tavington recognized that Cornwallis might have more than dogs on his mind. The scene today would do more than make the Lord General ridiculous. It would demoralise their men, and also destroy the fragile conventions of honour that made prisoner exchanges possible. Clever as the Ghost's trick had been, why should the British trust the rebels in the future—and why should the rebels, considering their own bad faith, trust the British?

Tavington pointed out the difficulties. "The man has the loyalty of the people. They protect him, they protect his family, they protect the families of his men." Seeing an extraordinary opportunity present itself to him, Tavington went on. "I can capture him, but to do so requires the use of tactics that are somewhat---what was the word, my lord?"

Cornwallis glanced significantly at the servant, who quietly absented himself from the room.

Cornwallis leaned back in his chair, staring grimly at Tavington. "Go on," he said. He looked like a man resigning himself to methods he felt beneath him. Still, the Ghost had shown himself no gentleman with his dishonest dealings, and that fact seemed to be tipping the balance in Tavington's favour.

Tavington, feeling at last in command of the situation, went to the sideboard, and poured himself a glass of wine.

"I am prepared to do what is necessary. I alone will assume the mantle of responsibility, free from the chain of command, rendering you blameless. However," he said, staking his whole future on this one throw, "if I do this, you and I both know that I can never return to England with honour. What, I wonder, is to become of me?" He had never wished to return to England anyway, but the Lord General could not know that.

Cornwallis rose from his desk and walked over to a table that displayed the map of his land grant. "When this war is over here in the Colonies, the new aristocracy will be landowners."

Tavington, hiding the relief and joy he felt at assuring a future for Elizabeth and himself, merely smiled coolly, and said, "Tell me about Ohio."

***

Tavington found Bordon and they returned to camp. A memory of the day he met that rebel leader had surfaced. A group of children had been ranged behind the man on the steps of the farmhouse. How many? He couldn't quite remember. A large family. He recalled several little boys and a pretty little blonde girl. A man would do nearly anything to keep his children safe. If he could round up the fellow's children and put them in protective custody at the Fort, the rebel would have little choice but to surrender himself, give his parole, and sit out the rest of the war. In some ways, it was a better revenge than killing him. Though, when he considered it, Tavington thought there was little reason to trust such a man's parole. Better to send him to the hulks, and forget about him.

Surely Elizabeth would understand. He had not the slightest intention of harming the children. In fact, he convinced himself, they would be far better off at Fort Carolina. They would be safe from the dangers of either army attacking them, and free from the fear of the rogue militia bands and murderous stragglers roaming the countryside. Yes, it could even be said he was doing those children a favour. Their father had obviously failed to care for or teach them properly. He would try to persuade Elizabeth to visit them. 

Quickly making his way to the officers' mess tent, he looked about. "Wilkins!" The captain, napping on a cot too small for his huge frame, woke slowly as always.

Tavington asked urgently, "The plantation—seven miles from Wakefield on the Santee, east of Black Swamp? Who owned it?"

Wilkins regarded him blankly, then said, "Benjamin Martin."

"He is the Ghost," Bordon explained.

"What do you know about him?" asked Tavington.

"Hell, everything," said Wilkins. "I can tell you the size of his boot."

__

Yes, that is just the sort of useless information I do not care about. Tavington asked, controlling his irritation, "Does he have family? Where would he keep his children?"

Wilkins looked around the tent, clearly uncomfortable. Tavington waited. _Don't go soft on me now, Cousin James_.

"His wife's sister has a plantation. It's not far."

This Benjamin Martin must have been anticipating such a move on his part, once he knew his identity would be revealed. The children were gone; and the house slaves, apparently fond of their mistress, told them nothing. Some offered resistance, costing them their lives. Tavington regretted the fate of the slaves, who were obviously not responsible for their owner's treachery, but the need to capture his enemy was too desperate. However, it was all in vain. The children and their aunt had vanished. In the dark distance, some riders appeared, mocking them, and then were gone. And for a while, there was no further sign of Benjamin Martin the Ghost, or his rebel band. 

---

Author's note: I am not making up anything about King's Mountain: it really was that ugly. And the cruelty shown by the Patriots to the Loyalists did frighten away a lot of Loyalist supporters. I have tried to also make clear that it was very much an American battle: Major Patrick Ferguson was the only British soldier on the field.

The chapter title is from Job 1:15.

At this point, I feel I must say something about the so-called Waxhaws Massacre of May 1780, even though it occurred before the events in my story. The filmmakers of _The Patriot_ present a very sensationalised and dishonest interpretation of events. In brief, it seems that Tarleton and the Legion caught up with Colonial Col. Buford and his troops. Tarleton offered them generous terms of surrender. Buford said they would fight to the last man. During the fight, Tarleton's horse was shot out from under him, and his men thought he was dead. The Colonials raised the white flag about this time, but Tarleton's men killed many in rage until they could be called to order. Meanwhile, Col. Buford made good his escape. It was certainly not the only event of its kind on either side during the Revolution, but the colonials made good use of it for propaganda, and it was (and still is) offered as a reasonable excuse for the slaughter at King's Mountain. 


	15. Chapter Fifteen: Ghosts, Dreams, and Chr...

_Disclaimer: I do not own the rights to the Patriot, but I have the right to dream. _**   
  
**CHAPTER FIFTEEN: Ghosts, Dreams, and Christmas 

"Elizabeth, what do you know of Benjamin Martin?"

It was Sunday. Tavington had taken the time to pay a call. As a betrothed couple, Miss Everleigh allowed them an hour alone in the parlour per visit, as long the door was kept open.

"Benjamin Martin? Of Wakefield?" she asked, clearly baffled by the question. She curled up on the sofa next to him, looking at him fondly.

"It seems this Benjamin Martin is our Ghost."

She sat thinking a moment, a disbelieving smile on her face.

Tavington said, "I assure you it is true. I saw the man myself."

"Yes, my dearest, but _Ben Martin_!"

"He served in the last war, and I am told, quite effectively."

"Yes, but that was years ago!" She gave a soft laugh. "I know him, of course. South Carolina planter society is a small world. Father and he were quite good friends before the war. He often praised Mr. Martin as a fine woodsman, and they would go together into the swamps near the Martin place for Father to observe new subjects. He stayed with Mr. Martin several times, and Mr. Martin even visited us once. Mr. Martin is something of an eccentric, you know." Tavington regarded her blankly. "He doesn't keep slaves, but hires free Negroes." 

Tavington was faintly uncomfortable, knowing that the day would come when he would really have to tell Elizabeth how very distasteful he found the idea of owning slaves. They were too happy right now for him to wish to raise such a potentially unpleasant topic, but he must find a proper time, and soon. He did not want to discuss it at the moment, just as he had received the unwelcome news that he had something in common with a despised enemy.

Elizabeth was smiling oddly as she concluded her story, "But with the war, their friendship came to an end."

"Martin was a rebel from the first, I take it."

"No, no, that is the sad thing. Mr. Martin was sympathetic to the rebel cause, but thought a war with Britain to be madness. He said something at the time that was remarkably prophetic: that if there were indeed a war, it would not be on some foreign field, but it would be fought here, and our children would see it." She glanced away, and then smiled at Tavington. "Very wise of him, as the war itself has proved."

"I suppose so," Tavington grudgingly allowed. She laughed and leaned closer to him.

"When his friend Major Burwell exhorted him to stand by his principles, Mr. Martin replied, 'I'm a parent. I can't afford principles.'"

Tavington snorted. "It sounds rather weak-minded to me."

Elizabeth was even more amused. "You sound like my father. He accosted Mr. Martin and told him very angrily that if anything, parents need principles more than other people: 'for how else can they teach them to their children?'" She shrugged. "And that was the end of a famous friendship."

She laughed again, "_Ben Martin_!" 

Tavington looked at her narrowly. "What is it that you are not telling me?"

She bit her lip. "I might as well tell you, so someone else doesn't blurt it out at an inopportune moment. Not that many know this." She took a deep breath. "At one time, my father was rather keen for me to be the second Mrs. Martin."

Tavington gave her a horrified look. "Monstrous!"

Elizabeth burst out in helpless laughter. "Oh, not monstrous, surely, my love, but very, very unlikely!" She composed herself a little. "That was the reason Father wanted him to visit. The poor man was quite oblivious, though, I assure you. He was clearly still in love with his late wife. And furthermore," her smile grew mischievous, "it was apparent, according to my own scientific observations, that I was simply not blonde enough for him."

Tavington growled, and pulled her possessively against him. "The man's a fool."

"_Chaqu'un a son goût_."

"I am very glad you were not to his taste."

"It would not have mattered if I had been. He was not to mine. Whatever the drawbacks of my home situation, at least I was with my dear mother, and teaching my own sisters. I would hardly trade that to teach a houseful of stepchildren, one of whom was the age of my brother Richard—and also of Charles Crawford, for that matter. Besides," she said, nestling into the curve of his arm, "my mother was against it. Charles Crawford was always her candidate."

"Who was _your_ candidate?"

"You are, my dearest," she murmured, kissing him lightly. "I have never had another." Another light kiss.

Tavington frowned, unwilling to be distracted from the issue. "What about Stephen DeLancey?" He mentally cursed himself for that slip. 

Elizabeth looked at him curiously. "Do you know Stephen DeLancey?"

"Your aunt mentioned him." _Idiot, don't talk about another man to a woman while she is kissing you!_

"If I had truly wanted Stephen DeLancey, nothing would have stood in my way." She nuzzled his ear. "I thought you wanted to discuss Benjamin Martin. That poor man."

"He is not a 'poor man.' Call him rather a 'treacherous man,' 'a despicable man,' ' a soon-to-be-dead man----'"

"Thus proving me right. Why do you hate him so? Surely he is just another enemy."

"No," Tavington told her grimly. "It is he who hates me. And for good reason." She lay back against his shoulder and waited. "I killed his son."

"The eldest? Gabriel?"

"No. A younger one. It was just after Waxhaws. I came upon their house. They were tending the rebel wounded---some of ours, too, I admit, but I wanted to make an example. The eldest—Gabriel is his name?—was caught carrying dispatches. I arrested him as a spy. There was some argument. They tried to conceal that the young man was a son of the house, but the boy slipped up. At any rate, as my men were putting the spy under guard, the other boy attacked them and I shot him." She was looking at him without expression. "You think I went too far."

"I cannot presume to criticise you, but it seems a drastic form of discipline."

"Perhaps, but it is done. I had to make a quick decision, and I could not take a chance that he had a weapon on him. I then ordered my men to fire the house and barns, kill the livestock, take the horses, and free the slaves. It is disturbing to imagine that you might have been there."  
  
"I could not have been there. I told you how it was." She gave a short laugh. "But _had_ I been, you not have known Gabriel Martin was a rebel; and you would have _never_ seen those dispatches."

"Will you be that resourceful when we are married?"

"I shall surpass myself in resourcefulness. And you shall inspire me."

Uncle Ganymede had entered the room, holding a tray.

"What is it?" asked Elizabeth, a little offended.

Uncle Ganymede's thin dark face had fallen into its habitual lines of disapproval. "A letter for you, Miss 'Lizbeth." 

Crumpled on the silver tray was a dirty, folded paper very like the one Tavington had seen before. Elizabeth saw it, and glared furiously at the slave. He, for his part, looked blankly off into empty space.

She reached out to take it, but Tavington, his jaw tight with anger, picked it up instead. 

"Thank you." He gave Uncle Ganymede a brusque nod. "That will be all."

The elderly slave briefly looked Tavington in the eye with a hint of satisfaction at a job well done.

After he left the room, Elizabeth said coldly, "It seems that he _can_ read, after all."

Tavington restrained himself with difficulty. "You did not tell me these threats had continued. How many of these letters have you received?" He opened the note. Venomous, misspelled, soiled with what he dared not guess, it spoke of all the ugly, painful things the writer thought the Misses Wilde deserved.

"Enough of them. One a week at least, starting in October. I have discovered that they are indeed coming through the post, and that they do not seem to originate here in Camden. They are coming from somewhere outside our safe haven, from someone who feels great animosity, obviously."

"Obviously," Tavington agreed acidly. "I shall extend my most material thanks to Uncle Ganymede for his provident intervention. At least _he_ realises that the situation merits my attention."

"You have more important concerns than the ill-tempered scrawls of an anonymous coward," Elizabeth said. "These letters could come from a woman, for all we know. Though a poorly educated one, judging from the wretched handwriting." 

"I have no concerns more important that tracking down and eliminating a threat to anything of mine!" He began pacing the floor, seething with rage.

"I am a thing of yours?" she asked, affronted.

"Yes!" he said furiously, "you are mine! No backwoods savage, unfit to be called a human being, can threaten you and live!" He grasped her by the shoulders and kissed her passionately. She was warm and alive in his arms, and he recalled, in all its sweetness, the first time he had held her to himself: after he had killed the rebel who had put violent hands on her. When he reluctantly broke the kiss to let her breathe, he could see he was forgiven his temper by the look of delight on her face.

He kissed her again, gently. "I have no desire to frighten you, but it has been so long since I have had anyone of my own, that the thought of harm coming to you is insupportable. I am so happy at thought of marrying you, of having a life with you, and a ready-made family in your dear sisters; and these rebels are so vile---I detest them more than I can describe. I remember what they did to Patrick and his Sal, and poor Mrs. Montgomery's hapless husband. I have seen loyal men mutilated, and seen men who have been tarred and feathered, and died of it. I know that they would do worse to me if they could, and to you if they dared."

"But they do not dare," said Elizabeth, holding him close, her head on his shoulder.

He was not satisfied. "I will be going north, with the main body of the Army, and you will remain here. There will be the garrison here, of course, but there is always the possibility of a few of the rebels secretly entering the town to commit mayhem."

"Then take us with you."

"No!" he flung himself restlessly onto a sofa. "That is even more dangerous for you." He thought of Martin and his militia band, and his lip curled with disgust. "The best way is to eliminate the threat once and for all." He got up again, and walked over to the fireplace, leaning against the mantel

"Which is what you told me the Lord General wants anyway."

"I am on the watch for the Ghost." Tense and fierce, he stared into the fire on the hearth. "On the watch, and I mean to have him. He told me that before this war was over he was going to kill me. He may find himself sorely surprised. I was not able to stop him by capturing his children and holding them to compel his submission--"

Elizabeth looked at him in surprise.

"Yes," he told her impatiently. "I wanted to keep the children at Fort Carolina. I could have ended the war for him then and there. Do you think that cruel of me? A man like that ought not to have children anyway: not disciplining them, letting them join the rebels, allowing them to grow up so ignorant and stupid that they throw themselves unarmed at armed men. He puts his own interests before his children's welfare---and before they know it, they have lost their home. And who is caring for the children, while he makes his depredations on the countryside? Not he, though I saw that he had the eldest of his sons with him the day he came to Fort Carolina. He is probably teaching him to hang Loyalists, the way that brute Cleveland is said to have trained his own sons. God!" he pressed his fingers to his brow, feeling a headache coming upon him. "God! They should all be wiped off the face of the earth!"

Julia peeked into the room, "Aunt said to say your hour is up. Are you quarrelling?" 

"No, of course not," said Tavington, not wanting to frighten her. "Come in and sit with us." He forced himself to be calm and to smile at her. Reassured, she came and sat by her sister. Elizabeth put her arm around her.

Julia asked, "Are you going to be able to come for Christmas?"

"My dear child, I have no idea, and I will have no idea until it is nearly the day itself. I hope I shall."

*** 

Tavington had dreamed of King's Mountain again. He awoke, sick and sweating on his cot in his tent at camp. The dreams varied: most often he saw again the gnawed limbs sticking out of the rock piles, and the hogs refusing to be chased away. Once he had dreamed that it was he who had been hanged afterwards, and Elizabeth who had fallen down screaming as they forced her to look at his rotting corpse. This time, he had lain wounded and helpless on the battlefield, while the predators prowled closer; a wolf had bitten into his shoulder, while a hog buried its teeth in his side. The unbelievable pain he dreamed of shocked him awake. He forced himself to sit up: he could not bear to lie in a position similar to that in his nightmare. The cold was uncomfortable, damp with sweat as he was, and he reached for the bottle of brandy.

He has seen death in so many forms in his life. He had killed people himself in many painful ways. Somehow King's Mountain seemed to crown all the other horrors. There was not just violence there. That he was accustomed to. He was a man who lived by the sword, and it might very well be his destiny to die by it. 

What disturbed him was the malice, the hatred, the rebels' self-righteous attitude that their cause was so just that nothing else mattered: that the normal laws of war and even human behaviour need not apply when dealing with their enemies. Combined with the foreign landscape, the strange accents, the feeling of being in a different world in which he had no place, he had begun to feel a profound sense of alienation. War had a certain language of its own, and to be in conflict with people who had no grasp of this common language made Tavington feel that he was not entirely master of the situation or of himself.

He looked at his watch. It was three o'clock in the morning, both too late and too early to awaken anyone for a game of cards and a chat to exorcise the demons of the night. He smiled. Bordon would hardly have thanked him anyway had he awakened him earlier, as his subordinate and friend no longer slept alone.

Poor Polly Featherstone, Patrick Ferguson's surviving mistress, had rejoined the British Army a few weeks ago. After enduring vicious abuse as a prisoner, she had been put on a horse by a rebel colonel and had eventually managed to make her way back. She had lingered near Tavington's tent for days, looking at him with a pitiful hunger. He had given her enough money to go to the quartermaster and buy some clothes and outfit herself decently. He could not bring himself to take her to his bed. He knew the longing in her eyes was not for him, but for any memory of Patrick she could salvage. Bordon had taken her on, and was kind enough that she might find consolation as well as protection with him. 

His mother looked up at him from the watchcase. He wondered what she would have made of South Carolina and the camp of the Green Dragoons; and he knew that even had she lived, he could never have talked to her about the things he had seen and done. Elizabeth was different: she was a part of this world, and had come close enough to its violence to understand him. He thought about Elizabeth for awhile, and at length was relaxed enough that he could curl up on his side and sleep another few hours. _Christmas was coming…_

*** 

Tavington had not spent Christmas with a family in nearly twenty years. He had half expected a crisis to arise, preventing him from joining Elizabeth and her sisters at Miss Everleigh's house. Fate, however, was for once on his side. He had had the novel pleasure of choosing presents with some care, and had sent them on the day before. Now he would have the additional pleasure of seeing his gifts received.

The quartermaster had been his great resource. Stocks of looted clothing, jewelry, silver: all sorts of household possessions were to be had. While the Army's punishment for robbery was dire, there was considerable tolerance for scavenging deserted houses, or houses that had been burned or otherwise confiscated. Then too, many of the refugees were selling valuables for ready cash. He had not found the ring he wanted for Elizabeth, but he had found something else he thought would please her.

"The Three Graces," she smiled, pinning the green and white cameo onto a length of velvet ribbon, and tying it around her throat. Amelia and Julia crowded close to admire.

"It's lovely," murmured Amelia, with quiet enthusiasm.

"It's the three of us!" cried Julia. Seeing Elizabeth's amusement, she insisted with a huff, "Well, there you are in the middle. And then there is Melly, with her face turned away, because she's shy. And I am the smaller one on the side."

Tavington laughed. "Indeed, I did think some such thing. I bought this for Elizabeth in remembrance of the day I met my three favourite sisters."

He fastened a necklace of tiny seed pearls around Julia's neck, "Because," he said, "you are still a _little_ lady." She made a face at him and ran to a mirror to admire herself.

" Now for Amelia, in deference to her role as defender of her family----"

Amelia smiled and blushed, shaking her head.

"---as defender of her family, I say, I have a special gift."

It was an elegant pocket pistol inlaid with ivory grips. Amelia's eyes were perfectly round, and she blushed even more.

"Thank you, Colonel, it is a wonderful gift."

"And it is less likely to tear a hole in your pocket than one of Father's," solemnly observed Julia. 

Shyly, Amelia approached Tavington, and gave his cheek the lightest of kisses. She smiled at him again, with a brief glance, and whispered, "Thank you, my dear brother-to-be."

For Miss Everleigh and Mrs. Montgomery, there was French lace.

"Valenciennes," Miss Everleigh approved. "At least he has taste, Lizzie."

Charlotte Montgomery was overwhelmed that there was a present for her, and became so tearful and incoherent that Miss Everleigh finally made her sit down and hush.

The Montgomery children had a handsome present as well. Tavington might find them irritating and ill bred, but he could never forget that he had been three days too late to save their father. For them, Tavington had found a joiner and woodworker who created a most elaborate and complete Noah's Ark. Not only had the man carved the expected lions, horses, and cattle, but he had let his imagination run wild, and included many native animals: deer, panthers, opossums, and even a whimsical pair of skunks. George and the two oldest girls, Jane and Mary, were the first to see it, and were quite wild with admiration. Tavington was surprised when they managed to thank him with some degree of good manners. Apparently Elizabeth's tuition was bearing fruit. The little girls were as enchanted by the toy as they were by the fact that they would be allowed to dine with the adults for the occasion

While the Montgomerys enthused over their new plaything, Elizabeth and her sisters took Tavington aside to give him his presents.

"I made you a lot of handkerchiefs," Julia informed him. "I expect you go through them pretty quickly, with the blood and all."

Tavington kept his face perfectly straight. "I do go through them, Julia, and I am most obliged to you for your thoughtful gift." He took another look at them . "And these are very well made." 

"If I made mistakes, Lilabet made me take out the stitches and do them over. She is mighty particular. But I don't mind, since they were for you."

Amelia had made him a lace-edged silk cravat. "I hope you will wear it someday when you're especially happy," she said shyly.

"Thank you, my dear girl."

Elizabeth handed him a soft, paper-wrapped bundle. When he opened it, he found it contained three beautiful white silk shirts.

Tavington was silent, and then said, "Elizabeth---" 

"Lilabet wouldn't let anyone else touch them," said Julia. "She sewed every stitch herself."

Tavington said, "I don't believe I have ever owned a silk shirt."

Elizabeth stroked his hand. "Cousin James told me something interesting that the surgeons say about silk shirts."

Tavington knew what she meant. Army surgeons all insisted that silk could be removed from wounds far more easily and completely than linen. Smith, one of the Dragoons' surgeons, had explained to him that silk held together in the surgeon's tweezers, but that linen fibres fell apart and stayed in the wound, leading to infection. Officers who could afford silk shirts wore them into battle. Tavington's funds had not run to such luxuries.

"I shall always think of you when I wear one of these."

"I hope you will wear them often," Elizabeth said pointedly.

There was someone at the front door, and Uncle Ganymede showed the newcomer into the parlour. Tavington was surprised at his identity. He had known that Wilkins would be coming a little later on, but also joining them for Christmas dinner was David McKay, of all people.

At first, misled by the boy's blushes and stammers, Tavington assumed there was some infatuation with his Elizabeth. She, however, rectified this misapprehension.

"My dearest, you forget," she said. "He saw Amelia that terrible day. He has called several times since October."

No one could accuse either Amelia Wilde or David McKay of being overly chatty, but though they sat silent, they looked with such rapt intensity at one another, that no one could mistake their mutual attraction.

Elizabeth sniffed, "Look at them! It's appalling! They're children—babies, really."

Tavington pressed her hand with his. "Hardly babies! And I thought you would consider young love a beautiful thing."

"Young love indeed! Look at them! They're not adults! They are a pair of Dresden figurines!"

"Mr. McKay," said Tavington firmly, "has killed men in battle. And so, as I recall, has your sister Amelia. Let us grant them their dignity as man and woman, however prematurely it has been forced upon them."

Coming to sit by them, they heard Amelia and McKay discussing her studies. 

"I can understand the sewing and the music," the boy said, "but why geometry? Surely that can never be of any use to a lady."

Tavington winced inwardly. _Not the way to recommend yourself under this roof, my lad_. 

Miss Everleigh overheard, and directed a sneer at McKay; but before she could speak, Elizabeth remarked coolly, "A man who wonders why a woman needs geometry, is a man who has neither laid out a garden, nor dealt with a dress pattern."

McKay blushed, rather discomfited. Amelia bridled slightly, and seemed inclined to protect her young beau.

Miss Everleigh smirked. "So comforting to know that someone will be upholding the family tradition of sharp-tongued women when I am gone." She gave Tavington a thin smile. "Prepare to defend yourself, Colonel."

"I am always prepared, Madam," he said serenely, "and besides, I quite agree with Elizabeth. Surely a discipline that encourages clear thinking is of benefit to everyone. We certainly want the ladies to continue working with dress patterns, when the results are so pleasantly ornamental; and we will not always be at war. Some of us even hope to have the opportunity of assisting a lady in planning a garden one day." He caught McKay's eye, and the boy smiled back, in a moment of masculine collusion. 

"I like it--" began George Montgomery, and then stopped when he saw some of the expressions turned his way. He straightened up in his chair, and started again. "I like it when Melly reads to us out of that book about the Greeks and Trojans."

"No one asked you to interrupt, George Montgomery," observed his aunt, with caustic scorn. "Though I suppose we should all be grateful that _something _has made an impression on you. Other than a dogwood switch." 

"I like it," muttered the boy defensively, looking at the floor.

"I am very glad to hear it," said Elizabeth, surprised and pleased. She explained to McKay, "My sister Amelia is studying Mr. Pope's translation of the _Iliad_."

McKay smiled at George. "I like it too." Then he said to Amelia, "Though I would think you have enough of war in these times, Miss Amelia."

Amelia paused a moment, apparently bracing herself to speak. Then softly, she said, "It seems to me that the _Iliad_ is a book that could have been written _for_ these times, Mr. McKay." Seeing that the others wanted her to continue, she took a breath and went on.

"The two sides are so like each other: both brave, both heroic, respecting the same values, worshipping the same gods, even evidently speaking the same language. The tragedy is that they are destined to fight, and that every attempt at diplomacy is thwarted by some happenstance. The war should never even have taken place." She blushed and looked away. "That is what I think," she whispered.

Tavington smiled, appeciating her effort. "An interesting comparison, my dear Amelia. But tell me: who are the Greeks, and who are the Trojans?"

"I hope we're not the Trojans," Julia declared, "or we had better have some ships ready."

Amidst the general laughter that followed this, Uncle Ganymede announced dinner. A further noise at the front door revealed that Wilkins had arrived, just in time, and his young cousins greeted him with enthusiasm.

Seated at the dinner table, the room golden with candlelight, Miss Everleigh addressed them all.

"I expect some of you are wondering at the strange ways that Fate has led you to this table at Christmas time. A year ago, probably none of you could have guessed you would be here. Some we celebrated the holiday with last year are gone forever: there is not one of us present who is not missing someone who is no longer here to join us."

Charlotte Montgomery became tearful again. Miss Everleigh ignored her.

"God only knows where we shall all be in another year. One thing, though, I hope for: and that is for the war to be over by this time next Christmas."

"Amen to that," agreed Wilkins.

"Yes. Amen, indeed," said Tavington, kissing Elizabeth's hand.

---

Author's note: I am well aware that in the film, the Battle of Cowpens takes place in October, and so should already have taken place in my story. However, the film and the real story are once again divergent: Cowpens actually was fought in January 1781. I am keeping the real date for story line purposes.

Ladies' gowns were not generally fashioned with pockets. More often, a separate pocket was tied underneath the gown, and accessed through a slit in the skirt.

Seed pearls and cameos were high fashion in the mid -18th century. Martha Washington wore just such a necklace as Julia's at her wedding to George. The cameo Tavington gave Elizabeth I saw in a museum. It has a background of medium green agate, is ringed with a double row of seed pearls, and is oval, almost 2 inches (5 cm) in length.


	16. Chapter Sixteen: Scorched Earth

**__**

Disclaimer: I do not own the rights to The Patriot, especially not this very unhappy part. 

Author's note: Warning: Since throughout this story I have used Tavington's point of view exclusively, and have followed his scenes from the film, I found it necessary, as a matter of integrity, to include this section. This chapter covers the scenes in the film from "Heart of a Butcher," through "Gabriel's revenge." Needless to say, the burning of Pembroke church with all the villagers is an invention of screenwriter Robert Rodat and the producers of _The Patriot_. No such atrocity took place in the course of the Revolutionary War. Banastre Tarleton did in fact burn a town in South Carolina, but not the inhabitants. One of the Legion's captains, Christian Huck, burned an empty church. The filmmakers were interested in creating obvious villains in a summer blockbuster, and not in creating a balanced and thoughtful study of the Revolution. 

I have written it to make my story completely faithful the film. I have tried in the preceding chapters to lead up to it, and in this chapter I try to present circumstances that would make otherwise decent troops commit such an act. You may not wish to read it, but I think there are some good things in the chapter. The story line, however, will still be understandable if you skip to the next installment.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN: Scorched Earth 

In the end, Benjamin Martin's sins had returned to visit him.

It was their Cherokee scouts who tracked the two men to the cabin. Bordon had told his Indian friends about Martin, and found them eager to help. Some of them had long memories, and the atrocities at Fort Wilderness had been too long unavenged. These particular militiamen were particularly hated: notorious scalp-hunters, feared for their robberies and murders amongst the tribes. No colonial magistrate had ever held them accountable, no hint of punishment had ever threatened them; as long as they directed their violence against Indians, they were not held culpable of any real crimes.

Tavington had to get these men to talk. They must know the names of Martin's entire band. Even better, they would know where all these men came from; where they lived, where their families lived, and who was supplying them. Tavington could strike at the root of the local militia and kill it for good and all. 

Bordon himself, a kind man at heart, believed the end to justify the means, if the rebellion could be crippled and further bloodshed averted. Bordon's experience with the Indians had included learning of their methods, and he himself had experienced painful ritual ordeals. He was willing to do what was necessary, and Tavington respected him for it. He had brought Wilkins along as well. His knowledge of the locals was essential: furthermore, since Tavington's engagement to his cousin, Wilkins regarded his colonel as part of his family. "A man has to stand by his kin," he had acknowledged. With them were two of the most embittered dragoons in his command. Both had lost their entire families within the past three years, and were notable fighters, having, as one of them had said, "nothing left to lose." 

One of the rebels, Slade, had been wounded in some skirmish or other: the fellow Rollins had stayed with him. The Cherokee scouts led Tavington and his men to the place, a decent backcountry farmhouse. They would have been happy to stay and help in the questioning as well, but Tavington wanted as few witnesses as possible. The more secret they kept this information, the more rebels they would net if they moved quickly.

The Cherokees had said that the farmer and his wife who had owned the place were dead. The McLeods had been outspoken in their loyalty to the King, and had run afoul of Benjamin Martin's band or one of the other militia groups infesting the country. The empty house had been a convenient hiding place for the scalphunters. 

The witless look of surprise on Rollins' face as they burst into the cabin, pistols at the ready, was almost reward enough. The rebel was subdued, and Bordon began with his friend. 

Tavington grew bored, and he and Wilkins stepped outside for a walk. It was mild despite the season, and Tavington felt the bittersweet melancholy that always came to him at this time of year.

"Beautiful country," he murmured to himself. "Everything grows here."

A scream came from the cabin. Tavington sighed, and led the way back.

Stretched out of the kitchen table, dripping blood, lay what had been a man. Tavington could smell blood and urine mixing with the dusty scent of the dried herbs hanging from the ceiling.

Bordon looked at Tavington unhappily. "I'm sorry, sir; he died." He raised the man's head, and let it fall back with a thud.

Tavington could not hide his annoyance. They must not let this opportunity pass them by. He lifted the side of the table, letting the useless dead man slide to the floor. "Bring me the other one." He would stay, and see there were no mistakes made this time.

McDonald and big blond Van Wagner, his two troopers, dragged in Rollins. He was a scrawny, pockmarked Cracker, and represented to Tavington everything he hated about rebels. He stood before his captors without trembling, but what others might have called courage appeared only impudence to Tavington. _This is just the sort of dirty, ignorant brute who insulted Ferguson's remains and jeered as our officers hanged. He could even be the creature who tried to force himself on Amelia the night Arcadia was raided._

Bordon threw the man's pouch onto the table. It was filled with coins of all nations and denominations, and sundry pieces of loot. With a voice filled with contempt and loathing, Bordon said, "This one's a rebel, and a thief."

The rebel was unrepentant. "I'm not a thief," he said, with a shadow of pride. "I'm a patriot."

Tavington glanced at the heap of money. It was no small sum. Mr. Rollins had been a busy man. Possibly he was not merely a thief. More likely he was a robber, and had killed as well.

Tavington could hardly bear to speak to such a man. It would be such a pleasure to simply draw his pistol and blow the vile fellow's face in. But that could wait. First he must try every means to get the information they needed.

"Ah---I wonder how patriotic you'd be, if I offered you the chance to walk out of here alive; and to triple all of this---and all you have to do is tell me where I can find Benjamin Martin and his rabble."

Rollins looked at him, clearly weighing the possibilities. He smiled: a horrid expression. He spat fully and accurately in Tavington's face. Obviously, he had reasoned correctly that Tavington might let him walk out of the cabin, but would not let him live to take another two steps further.

Van Wagner slammed the rebel face down on the table. Rollins was still defiant. "Do your worst."

Tavington wiped the foulness from his face, and wondered how soon he could be rid of the smell of rotten teeth and tobacco. _Well, I always knew we would have to do this the hard way._

Coolly, he warned Rollins, "I always do."

He told them everything, of course. Tavington had to admit the man was tougher than he had expected, but as he told Bordon, "Even a cur will sometimes face a pack of wolves." No matter: though the man knew he was going to die, there were ways of dying that were less horrifying than others. Then, too, there were parts no man wished to lose, even if he knew he would never use them again.

Tavington found himself sickened, but refused to let it show. He could not ask his men to do something he flinched at himself. This was not like battle, where the passionate violence, the risk to oneself, gave a certain dark rapture to the moment. This was as dull, ugly, and distasteful as watching a butcher at work.

He pointed out to Rollins that Martin would never know how he suffered. He asked the man what he thought he owed Benjamin Martin: was he perhaps a close friend? Did he have kin among the other members of the band? Was there any good reason to feel such pain?

In return he received everything he hoped for.

Rollins obviously did not know everyone in the militia intimately, but he knew best the old backwoodsmen who had served with Martin in the last war. Tavington was pleased: these were the men he considered most dangerous, and the ones he hated most. Their families would soon know the price of treason. 

Even better was the revelation of the rebels' home base. The village of Pembroke was a nest of traitors: every family in the town had a kinsman in the militia. The local storekeeper provided them with supplies. Rollins had even heard a rumour that the storekeeper's daughter was the sweetheart of Gabriel Martin. The very parson of the town rode with Martin and his men. Tavington nearly slapped his own forehead with exasperation. _Of course! That imbecilic preacher we caught back in late October!_

Finally, he was satisfied and granted Rollins the promised bullet. There was little pleasure to be had in shooting such a broken thing, but he had given his word, and indeed could not risk someone coming upon the dying man. They disposed of the bodies and returned to camp. Tavington was full of plans for the morrow.

Tavington, Bordon, and Wilkins, between them, had worked out a map of the rebel homes. They would work their way through them, starting with the closest ones. The houses and barns were to be burned, and the livestock killed. After such a disaster, some of the men would have to leave the militia to look after their families, thus weakening the enemy's forces. For that reason, Tavington did not want the families harmed. They were far more useful alive, and dependent on their menfolk.

Such was his plan: it was not always feasible.

One such occasion was particularly unfortunate. Tavington was with Bordon's troop, when they came across the small holding of one John Billings, reportedly an old friend of Martin's. Lieutenant Monroe and two of the dragoons dismounted and walked toward the house, when suddenly a small boy with a pistol jumped out at them from behind a chicken coop.

David McKay saw the threat, instantly pulled his own pistol, and shouted at the boy. "Drop that weapon now!" The boy spun around and aimed at McKay. The young officer froze, unable to pull the trigger. Monroe, more experienced and decisive, saw McKay's peril and shot the child. The small body was flung three feet by the impact of the bullet. 

Some of the dragoons, horrified, gathered around, when a red-haired Amazon with a musket erupted from the house, shrieking. She fired; and a dragoon named Dawson, standing next to Monroe, was hit in the chest with a round of buck and ball. He collapsed, and Monroe and his other companion, Tom Baird, drew their sabres. The woman put up an impressive fight, slamming Monroe across the face with the musket barrel and breaking his nose. Baird ran her through the body, and she sobbed and cursed as she fell to the ground, crawling toward the dead boy. She never reached him. After a moment, she sighed and lay still.

Tavington rounded on the shaken Dragoons. "Baird! See to Dawson! Lieutenant Hunt! I want this place fired now!"

Baird, crouching over Dawson, called out, "He's dead, sir."

"Put him on his horse, and he'll be buried back at camp." Tavington called out, "Let this be a lesson to you all! A rebel in a petticoat can kill you as dead as her husband could! Their children are ready to shoot you in the back! They're as much our enemies as their fathers! Never trust any of them, and show them no mercy, for you will receive none!"

Bordon had dismounted, and was looking at the bodies. He straightened suddenly and whispered to Tavington, "Sir, the boy's pistol---it was a toy."

Flames rose from the cabin. Tavington looked at the woman and child in disgust. _Could anyone really be so stupid as to give a child such a toy, and then to let him wave it in front of armed men? _

He lowered his voice, speaking for Bordon's ears alone, "You are never to tell anyone else that. I won't have Monroe blaming himself for what was not his fault. It would only weaken him, and make him hesitate to defend himself in future. The boy's death was his parents' doing, and there's an end of it."

By the time the troops had joined forces at Pembroke, the Legion was angry and on edge. All of them had experienced ugly incidents, and there had been casualties. It was now well known amongst them that Pembroke had been identified as the rebel supply base, and Tavington's men were eager to make an example of the enemy there.

Tavington had thought for some time about what he wanted to do in Pembroke. All the events of the past months had combined to create a personal hatred for this enemy unlike any he had ever felt since he became a soldier. The insolence of the rebels, their dispossession of those who dared show loyalty to the Crown, the supreme horrors of King's Mountain: all made him want to strike down these people so completely that they could never pose a threat again.

He had decided to burn the entire village to the ground, leaving nothing. It was winter, and losing their homes at such a time would be catastrophic. 

He ordered the infantry detachment and the Green Dragoons to gather every inhabitant of the village into the church. There were complaints. There was resistance. The villagers were openly hostile and took every opportunity to procrastinate and dawdle as they were herded along. He looked at the empty windows, at any moment expecting a marksman to shoot from hiding. He could see that his officers and men were equally apprehensive.

When Wilkins told him they had rounded up everyone that could be found, he decided to face these people. Benjamin Martin, their leader, had still not been located. If he could find one Loyal subject in Pembroke, he could hope to find the last piece of the puzzle.

Rather than walk into the church with his subordinates, he decided to ride in on Xanthus, to further intimidate the rebels. Once in, he automatically removed his helmet, and addressed the villagers.

"This town has given aid to Benjamin Martin and his rebels. I wish to know his whereabouts." There was only stillness. He could see their fear, but also their contempt and hatred.

"So—" he continued, to make himself clear, "anyone who comes forward may be forgiven their treason." There was still no response. His glance swept the interior of the church. They were a hardened lot. His eye fell on a group before him. A pretty young woman, with dark hair like Elizabeth's, and her parents, he presumed. Would they not confess, even to protect her? They stared at him as if he were speaking some unknown tongue.

Tavington kept his mask of aristocratic disdain firmly in place. Behind it, he was ready to explode. It really was impossible even to communicate with these creatures. They had obviously never imagined that their treason would have consequences to themselves. A new impulse, boiling up inside of him like lava, possessed him and seemed to him good. Wherever these people went, they would always be a danger to his troops and to loyalist civilians. Within a month or two, there would be a new, unknown rebel supply base to track down and deal with.

Not wishing to waste any more time with them, he said coldly "Very well, you had your chance." He began to turn Xanthus away, when a voice called, "Wait!"

Tavington looked for the voice. A heavy-set man in a wig pushed forward, pointing to the fat father closest to Tavington. "This man gives Martin and his men supplies!" 

The fat man tried to shout him down. "Be quiet!"

The first man went on hurriedly, "He brings them to Black Swamp by the old Spanish Mission!"

The pretty girl he had noticed before cried out shrilly, "He's a liar!"

Tavington looked at them all with loathing. He mastered himself with difficulty.

"This man here?" he said, indicating the fat man. 

"Yes," the anxious man replied. _This must be the storekeeper Rollins told us about. And this_, Tavington thought, his eyes sliding over the girl, _must be Gabriel Martin's sweetheart. A vulgar little hussy. Urging her lover to kill us with a fine patriotic fervour, no doubt. _He thought of Rollins with grudging respect_. So there was one bit of information he kept back._

Tavington repeated carefully, "Black Swamp, you say—by the old Spanish mission?" He looked at the man who had talked, and saw no loyalty there, but only fear for his life_. Indeed, anyone daring to express loyalty in such a place would have been tarred, feathered, and_ _driven out long ago._ "Thank you very much," he said politely. He put on his helmet, and rode out into the grey winter light. He nodded to the infantrymen. "Shut the doors."

"But—" complained the informant, "You said we'd be forgiven!"

"And indeed you may!" declared Tavington, "but that is between you and God!" He guided his mount away from the church, away from those people who would soon no longer trouble him or anyone else. 

Wilkins approached him, "Ready to fire the town at your orders, sir."

"The town?" Tavington sneered. "Burn the church." He wanted more than anything in the world to be done with those people for good. _Make an end of them, put them out of the world, put them out of my misery._

Wilkins stared at him, flummoxed. He protested, "There's no honour in this."

__

Still soft after everything that has happened, Cousin James? And you the one who puked your heart out at the sight of our dead at King's Mountain?

Aloud he asked, "Didn't you say that all who stand against England deserve to die a traitor's death?" Wilkins looked at him helplessly. "Burn the church, Captain," Tavington repeated, as if to a slow-witted child.

Wilkins looked at his fellow officers, but Tavington had sensed that he had their full support . Wilkins must have sensed it, too, for he finally picked up a torch and hurled it onto the church roof.

As much to himself as to Wilkins, Tavington said quietly, "The honour is found in the end, not the means. This will be forgotten."

He turned to lead them away. "Bordon!" he called. Some of his troopers saw the church starting to burn and eyed each other uncertainly. A few looked grim, and then shrugged. This place would never pose a threat to them again.

As Tavington left the village, his mind lost the terrible clarity he had felt at the church and tumbled into a chaos of confusion. His blood was still up, pumping as if he had fought a battle. He wondered if he had, and who had won.

At length, they found the campsite in the swamp. And Martin was not there. 

Not that the man at the church had lied. There was plenty of evidence that this place had been used as a camp, and recently, too; but it was deserted. Tavington eyed the robbers' lair with disgust. It was littered with loot: silver candlesticks, a fine desk, jewelry, and money were scattered about on the desolate island in the marsh, along with cooking pots and animal bones, and all the other ugly detritus of undisciplined men. _What a suitably sinister place for a bandit leader._

Fluttering around the edges of his consciousness were the memories of people screaming inside a burning building. Tavington refused to listen to the screams. They were people who could do no further harm. They were people he did not know. He directed his attention to the here and now.

He split up his force to search a wider area. He felt a growing desperation. He must, absolutely must, find Martin. His future depended upon it, and Elizabeth and her sisters were depending upon him. He needed to find Martin to justify every questionable act he had ordered; and it was beginning to occur to him that some of his acts might be viewed as very questionable indeed by people who were not in possession of all the facts.

Uneasily, he considered his recent activities. Who would talk about them? His own men of the British legion had participated, both Dragoons and infantry, and it was possible some might talk, though perhaps not in a believable way. Anything the rebels said would likely be dismissed as exaggerations or inventions created to sway popular opinion. As long as there was no open scandal, it was unlikely that the Lord General would call him to account, if only he could deliver the promised Ghost. And as for the people of Pembroke---well, there were none of them left to bear witness.

It was early the next morning that the rebels arrived. 

He was encamped with Bordon and a small detachment. Meticulously shaving himself, crouched in the streambed, he was not aware of the attackers until he heard Bordon's call to arms. He saw the riders coming down the hill at full gallop, and cursed himself as all kinds of fool for being too distracted to set pickets.

Dashing to his horse, he pulled his weapons from the pistol buckets. He fired once, then twice: both times bringing down his man. The rebels came on and were firing too; they dismounted and came running towards them. Some fell, but some of the Dragoons were going down as well. Tavington shifted his pistol into his left hand, and turned it butt-upward to use as a club. He drew his sabre and gave himself up to battle, free from all guilt and doubts: smashing one's man skull with the pistol, and driving his sabre into another man's heart with precision.

He recognized the blonde hair and handsome face of Gabriel Martin, son of the Ghost, the stupid boy who had begun all this last May with his dispatches. The boy knew how to fight—better indeed than the fool of a parson, fumbling desperately to reload. From the corner of his eye, he saw Bordon engage the Martin boy hand to hand, while he concentrated on reloading his pistol. _Bite the cartridge_, _pour the load,_ _ram it down, and fire_—things as second nature to him as breathing. The idiot parson was falling to his knees, blood flowing from his wound like wine from a spigot. Bordon was down, but Tavington had no time to think of him now: he must reload again, but the parson was throwing his weapon back to the boy Gabriel. _Bite, pour, ram, fire_—and the world spun, the earth rushing up to meet him.

He was face down on the ground, on top of his sword, feeling as if he had been kicked in the ribs. He lay still, and considered every part of his body. Nothing seemed damaged but his side. There was silence, but for the sound of slow footsteps in the grass. _Martin's son!_

I may die here and now, he thought, _this grass may be the last thing I see;_ and fiercely he pushed the idea away. He was intent only on the sound of the approaching footsteps, closer, closer, pausing now—

He whirled, facing up, sword in hand, ignoring the pain in his left side—and impaled a shocked Gabriel Martin on the point of his blade. The boy was holding a knife_. You've associated with scalphunters and outlaws too long, my lad; you won't get a trophy today._

The boy, helpless on the sabre, died slowly. It was always a strange thing to watch: life leaving the eyes, consciousness fading; and he saw it all now as the boy slid further down the sword. When his enemy was plainly no longer a threat, Tavington pushed him away, and struggled up onto his feet and toward his horse, clutching his wound. Big, even-tempered Xanthus did not fail him, but held steady for Tavington to mount and ride hard for help. 

****

Author's second note: It all reminds me of the famous story, also said to have happened during the Second World War, when a British military attaché was visiting Washington D.C. A young American captain was assigned to show him the city, and they stopped before a monument commemorating the War of 1812.

The Briton, puzzled by the reference, asked, "The War of 1812? Whom were we fighting then?"

The American, with some embarrassment, said, "Actually, sir, we were fighting you---The Americans were fighting the British—you remember? The British burned Washington?"

The Brit, horrified, protested, "Burned Washington! We burned Joan of Arc, I know, but never Washington!"

On reflection, I think what makes me angriest about the church-burning scene is not that it vilifies the British, but that it normalizes the Nazis, who actually did commit an act such as the one described during the Second World War in France. To either be so ignorant of history, or so cynical about one's audience, as to pretend that Nazi style atrocities are something that would have occurred in 18th or 19th century European or American warfare---well, it boggles the mind. The reason so many people couldn't believe the rumours coming out of Europe during the Second World War (and the reason some people are still in denial about it today), is that the Nazis really were something new under the sun. It also is a lazy shortcut for someone wanting to create a villain, and an excuse to kill him horribly and feel good about it. That is why I love the film _The Patriot_, but am exasperated with it: it never actually deals with the real reasons for the Revolutionary War (other than about 3 seconds mouthing the words "taxation without representation"), and falls back on that tired old genre, the revenge melodrama.

That is why you will hear little more about the Pembroke burning in this story. I can't deal with it in a realistic way, because it's simply not a realistic event. First, you would need an 18th century Englishman who thinks like a Nazi, then a group of soldiers and officers who wouldn't shoot him down like a mad dog (there were plenty of cases in the 18th century of mutinous troops), then you would need a superior who wouldn't hang him summarily, and finally you would need a King who would excuse him. In a future chapter, I will fictionalize a real event that shows how seriously the British took crimes against civilians.

Looking at it all from a twentieth-first century perspective, however, one could point out that thousands of children and other noncombatants were roasted alive by bombing in World War Two ( and quite a few wars since), and those were looked upon as unfortunate but necessary casualties. 


	17. Chapter Seventeen: Nemesis

_Disclaimer: I do not own the rights to The Patriot. Nor Gladiator, nor Zulu, nor any other film with a thrilling battle scene. _ CHAPTER SEVENTEEN: Nemesis 

Cornwallis had pushed them hard for the last three days, anxious to find Dan Morgan and Harry Burwell. Lord Rawdon had been left in command of Fort Carolina and its garrison. Rushing north to scout for signs of the rebel generals, Tavington and his men were moving fast, and had left behind women, supplies, and indeed almost everything that made a soldier's life bearable. Some of the newer men, the recruits who had been captured in arms for the rebels and had since sworn loyalty to the King, were particularly unhappy, and were not shy about expressing their discontent. 

Tavington had not been himself since the day of the skirmish with the Martin boy. The graze along his ribs had been stitched, but the stitches were stretched and painful from long hours in the saddle. The cold and wet combined to further exhaust him. He would never give in to his body. As his first mentor, Captain Sharpe, had told him: "A man can always do more than he thinks he can."

He paid the necessary visit to the surgeon's tent, and Smith came to change his bandages. Tavington pulled up the torn and bloody shirt for him, while Smith chattered soothingly of camp gossip. Bordon was clinging to life after the skirmish, and he and a few other survivors were back at a field hospital. If Bordon improved even a little, he would be carried south to Camden for better care. Polly Featherstone was with him, and giving him every attention. Tavington rewarded Smith with a slight smile. He could well imagine that Polly was determined at all costs to save her new man. He missed Bordon's calm support already. He wondered if the captain would ever be fit for duty again. He had given Bordon's troop to Tom Sandford, who had recently made a daring escape from a rebel jail with two other officers, and had fought his way back to the Legion.

As Smith finished, the tent flap opened, and Tavington was startled to find the Lord General bearing down on him. He had no idea what, if anything, the Lord General knew about Tavington's recent deeds. 

Cornwallis seemed no more inimical than usual, as he said abruptly, "We will miss you tomorrow, Colonel."

"Miss, my lord?" For one heart-stopping moment, he thought that Cornwallis meant to relieve him of command.

"Your wound."

Brusquely pushing the surgeon aside, Tavington rose to show his commander that he was no invalid. "It's nothing!" he insisted.

Cornwallis looked at him intently. "I stand on the eve of the greatest victory of my career. Don't fail me."

The implied criticism rankled. Tavington declared, "My efforts, in no small measure, have brought you here."

"I grant you that small measure, despite your failure to deliver the Ghost to me."

Tavington could barely restrain the grimace the words provoked. "Thus far," he allowed.

Cornwallis came closer still and gave him his sternest regard. "I will not tolerate a premature charge born of your eagerness for glory. Wait for my order." The Lord General turned away with a parting shot, "Or you may abandon any hope of Ohio." He walked out of the tent, and Tavington was left to his own thoughts. They were fairly unpleasant. He had plainly failed to win his lordship's favour, and any change there seemed unlikely, no matter how the battle went tomorrow. Only delivering the Ghost bodily before Cornwallis might have an effect.

His shirt stank of sweat and was stiff with dried blood. He couldn't bear to spend another day in it. Once back in his own quarters, he reluctantly pulled out the spare shirt he had brought. It was one of the silk ones Elizabeth had given him for Christmas, and he hated to wear it for the first time on this occasion. He cast away the dirty, rank garment, wincing at the twinge from his wound, and slipped on the fresh one. It was incredibly soft, and slid over his skin like a caress. _Elizabeth._ He knew it would please her that he was wearing her gift. 

Thinking of her, he realised he had made no proper disposal of his effects in case the worst happened. Writing quickly, he directed that the few hundred pounds he had should be hers, along with his horse, his weapons, his watch, and his sundry other possessions. When all was said, there really was not much. 

He had gone into battle so many times with no one to care if he lived or died. Somehow, it was worse knowing that now hearts would break if he fell. He wondered how married men, men with children, could do this at all. Unbidden, he remembered Elizabeth quoting Martin's words, "_I'm a parent. I can't afford principles."_ He had scorned them before, but he understood them at last.

It did not matter, now. He would sleep. The morning would come, and he would fight. That was his life; until fate and his own devising could provide him with a better.

The field was a rolling one, good for cavalry. Tavington eyed the ground with satisfaction. The Dragoons were another story. Some of them looked as weary as he felt, and the Legion infantry looked worse. Tavington briefly conferred with Major Cochrane, the Legion's infantry commander. Charles Cochrane looked ill himself, and responded glumly to Tavington's queries. Tavington understood: he too had reservations about engaging the rebels now. He comprehended that Cornwallis wanted to smash this force before it could join with Greene, but he could not but feel the British Army was not at its best at the moment. Someone, he thought Wilkins, had told him that they were near a place called Hannah's Cow Pens. Amusing really, going into battle in a backwoods place so primitive there was not even a town nearby to give the battlefield a proper name.

The rebels had formed in line, raggedly enough, and Tavington saw with disbelief the militia in the forefront. _Incredible! They are putting their worst troops foremost! _

The advance had begun: the rebels came toward them with a show of defiance. When in range they fired a volley. Effective enough—while they lacked discipline, Tavington had never despised them as marksmen. Whether the militia would stand up to a return volley was another question. 

The return volley roared forth from the infantry below him. The rebels were falling and beginning to falter. Tavington took a look through his telescope, and saw Benjamin Martin, the Ghost who had haunted him for so many weary months, attempting to rally the militia. They were cracking, as fire raked them and cannonballs removed limbs. 

Forgetting the Lord General, forgetting his orders, forgetting everything but his enemy before him, Tavington unsheathed his sword, and shouted, "Prepare to charge!"

"Sir!" Wilkins protested urgently, 'We haven't been given that order!"

Ignoring him, Tavington commanded, "Charge!" Putting his spurs to his mount, not even looking to see if anyone would follow, he galloped down the hill to find the man he hated.

The rebels were retreating. The sight of the infantry marching inexorably towards them, and then Dragoons charging their way, had plainly broken their nerve. 

Tavington saw that Cornwallis must have ordered a bayonet charge, for the infantry was trying to race the cavalry to the enemy, like rivals for a fair woman's favour. There was a low rise. Galloping up it, Tavington heard the hoofbeats of the Dragoons closest to him. Up, up, and then he looked down—

And saw Dan Morgan's regulars, neatly arrayed below. In an instant, he knew both he and Cornwallis had fallen into a most elegant trap. Morgan had taken the events that lost the rebels Camden, and had turned them on their head, using the militia's retreat to lure the British in. 

"Hold the charge!" Tavington shouted. Most of his men listened. As a rule, there was nothing harder than stopping a cavalry charge once it was well and truly launched, but his men were so exhausted that they were not as swept away by the charge as they might otherwise have been. Some were forging blindly ahead. The opposing infantries were meeting in a bayonet rush; and Tavington was about to rally the Dragoons, when he heard a hated voice in the distance.

"Hold the line!"

There he was, the Ghost, waving his flag and turning the tide of the militia rout. Tavington was hacking at the rebels around him, but theirs was not the blood he wanted. Taking the life of this one man would resolve a world of difficulties and disappointments. Kicking Xanthus forward, he charged down toward Martin, and saw the man looking his way, holding his flag like a lance. Tavington, caught up in the fierce joy of battle, did not recognise his danger until too late.

He was aware of a sudden shock, and Xanthus' shrill death scream; and then he pitched through the air, falling endlessly. He was stunned and disoriented by the impact with the ground, but too engrossed in finding his enemy to yet be much aware of the intense pain in his side, where the stitches had ripped open, and in his hip and thigh, bruised from the fall. He got to his feet, sword still in hand, and surveyed the chaos around him. Where was Martin? 

There! Not twenty feet away, drawing aim on him with a pistol. Tavington stared him down, wondering if this would be the end, when an artillery round behind Martin spoiled his aim, and the pistol ball tore through Tavington's left arm. _If it had hit the bone, it would hurt_ _more,_ thought Tavington stoically.

Then he hefted his blade and ran at Martin; and his enemy clubbed his pistol, drew the infamous axe from his belt, and ran towards him. And then there was nothing but the here and now of combat. 

Their weapons clashed together in the ancient dance of thrust, slash, and parry. Within seconds, Tavington realised he was at last fighting someone very like himself—a man who gave himself up to combat unreservedly, and who knew all the ways of battle. The man must be a few years older than he, but he was as practised as Tavington, less weary, unwounded, and had not just fallen from a horse. 

Nonetheless, Tavington managed to hit him in the face with his sword hilt, and then slashed him across the arm. As Martin staggered, dropping his pistol, Tavington picked up a knife in his left hand, ignoring the pain in his upper arm. They locked blades again. Martin slammed his head against Tavington's, momentarily stunning him, and slashing him across the breast with the newly drawn belt knife in his left hand.

Tavington disengaged to sabre distance, seeking an opening. At last his blade tore open his enemy's back, and Martin's face twisted in agony. Not losing a moment, for this was a man to beware of, Tavington knocked the axe from his hand, and slashed at him again and again. 

Martin had snatched up a musket and bayonet from the ground, and used it to block Tavington's sword. He was weakening, he was tiring—Tavington could feel it. Tavington slashed him again, and Martin fell to his knees.

"Kill me before the war is over, will you?" Tavington taunted him. "It appears you are _not_ the better man." He was behind him, readying his blade for the beheading stroke. The pain from his torn stitches slowed him down; and as he swung his sabre, Martin rolled beneath it, stabbing up with the bayonet into Tavington's right side, scraping against a rib.

Shocked beyond belief, Tavington could only stare at the weapon penetrating him. 

"You're right," Martin agreed, picking up a bayonet from a fire on the ground. "My _sons_ were better men." Looking into Tavington's eyes, he aimed the hot point right under Tavington's collarbone, and thrust deep. The pain was overwhelming, and Tavington lost sense and coherence to it. Blood was in his mouth, and he was aware that Martin had pulled the bayonet free and had turned away from him.

He was swooning away. The pain in his side and in his upper shoulder reminded him of something—a dream, that was it. Or was this a dream? A wolf and a wild hog tore at him. He could not die! Not like this! Elizabeth needed him. He had promised Julia not to let the rebels kill him. Was his word worth nothing? Blackness came over his eyes, and he drifted in and out of his body.

Occasionally awareness came in flashes. His existence had narrowed down to nothing more than the consciousness of pain. He had fallen to one side and could hear voices from time to time. He longed for water and to clear his mouth of blood. Suddenly he felt himself being moved, being lifted, and tried vainly to scream. Voices around him murmured, but he could make nothing of them. Tavington wondered if the wolves and hogs would come after him again. Something was being wrapped around his wounds, and he tried to stop the torture, but was too weak even to move his uninjured arm.

He drifted away once more, and somewhat later realised that someone was leaning close to him, speaking to him, and he tried to see who it was.

Wilkins' big, stupidly handsome face was over his, peering at him anxiously. "Are you still with me, Colonel?"

Tavington could only manage a weak groan, but it seemed to satisfy Wilkins. "All right then. We're going to get you into the wagon."

He opened his eyes and knew he must be in a field hospital somewhere. He was not dead yet! The pain was so terrible that he was not sure living was worth it, but he must try to survive. He could not die and leave Elizabeth. He had sisters again, and responsibilities. He would not die, if only to spite General Lord Cornwallis. 

A surgeon's assistant saw him awake, and called for his superior. Ned Smith ran over, all smiles. "Colonel! Rob, get the Colonel some water."

Water. He would kill for water. He would like to be able to kill for water_. We don't appreciate water as we ought_, he thought, as the cool blessed stuff filled his mouth. He could taste the blood mixed with it, and grimaced, but then there was just the water and he drank greedily. The movement of swallowing hurt his upper chest wound horribly, and he could not repress a whimper. Smith gave him a few drops of laudanum, and he sank into a relieved torpor.

The next time he awakened, he was still in dreadful pain, but was slightly more rational. He tried to move his left arm, and could not: it was bandaged stationary and he remembered the gunshot wound. He tried to move his right arm, and discovered he could bear to move it, but only from the elbow down. Still, that was enough to feel his bandaged body, and to discover strange-smelling lumps under the wrappings. Poultices of some kind, he supposed. With a certain dread, he began to explore the extent of the damage.

He remembered, unwillingly, the horror of the bayonet stabbing him, and his hand on his waist found the hurt place. _Not a belly wound, but too close_. He paused a moment, to steady his breathing. _There is nothing I can do. I will live or I will die._

He could not reach the damage around his collarbone, but it was extremely painful, and must be serious. _But he missed the artery, or I would be dead already. And if he had hit the lung, I would be having more trouble breathing._

There was the possibility of the slow, rotting death from gangrene. Of all the ways to die, Tavington most feared blood poisoning. He had always had clean healing flesh, but he had never before been wounded so badly.

Rob Fraser, the surgeon's assistant, came by again, fed him some lukewarm broth and cleaned him a little. Supposedly Smith would see him soon, to change his bandages and give him more laudanum. Tavington hated the idea of the drug, the very drug that had enslaved and killed his mother, but there was no real alternative. Too much pain could kill a man as dead as loss of blood. He shivered, and Fraser put another blanket over him.

He wondered idly about the outcome of the battle. Possibly things had not gone very well, but the laudanum made the concerns seem very far away. He slept.

Time ceased to have meaning. Occasionally, he was shocked awake as his bandages were changed. He would look down at his body, wounds black and red and oozing, and was rather impressed at the amount of damage he had survived. He had seen men survive worse, he reminded himself. If the wounds did not mortify, he might live and recover.

Smith talked to him quietly as he worked, easing the fouled bandages off, replacing the poultices, and covering him again. He gave Tavington a brief account of how he had come to be here. James Wilkins had rescued him from the battlefield, standing over him and fighting off the rebels until he could put him over a horse, mount up himself, and escape. Wilkins had found a barn to hide in to evade the rebel pursuit, and had eventually made his way back to the British lines. His crude attempt at bandaging Tavington had apparently saved his Colonel's life.

Smith went on, detailing Tavington's condition, "Your arm is healing well—the bullet came out easily, and the wound should cause no trouble in the future. The cut across your chest is stitched up and half-healed already. I know the upper chest wound hurts, sir, but it's doing far better than I could have expected—no sign of infection at all. It's almost as if it was cauterized when it was made."

Tavington forced himself to respond. "The bayonet had been in a fire. I remember it was hot."

"Well, that explains it," said Smith cheerfully. More soberly, he continued, "The old graze in your side was badly torn, but it will heal in time. The other side is a deep wound, but we cleaned it very thoroughly when you were unconscious. I must say I'm glad you took my advice about wearing silk, sir. It came out of you neat as you please."

"How nice," Tavington murmured drowsily. On the edge of sleep, his mind wandered. _I wonder if Elizabeth will be happy to know that my shirt came out of me neat as you please?_

One evening, Wilkins was dozing in a chair at his bedside when Tavington awakened. The captain looked hollow-eyed and exhausted, and Tavington felt any news he had must be grim indeed. He looked at him for awhile, and then decided knowing was better than not knowing.

"Captain Wilkins," he whispered. Wilkins' eyes opened wide, and he appeared confused for a moment. Seeing Tavington awake, he grinned broadly.

"Colonel, sir! This is wonderful! We all thought we'd lost you!"

"No such luck. How are the Dragoons?"

Gradually, he got the whole story from Wilkins. Halting the charge had kept the Dragoons largely intact. They were alive to fight another day. The battle was lost, and the infantry casualties had been heavy. Reluctantly, Wilkins informed him of the fate of the Legion infantry.

"Sir, you know those recruits we took in after Camden—the ones who wouldn't stand and fight for the rebels?"

Tavington waited.

"Well, colonel, they wouldn't stand and fight for us either. During the bayonet charge, they changed sides and joined the rebels again! Who'd believe such a thing? I reckon though, that they're no loss: the rebels won't get any more use out of them this time than they did before.'

Tavington sighed. Losing the new recruits would decimate the Legion infantry. Furthermore, losing the recruits in such a way would deal the infantry a terrible blow to its morale.

"What of the Lord General?"

"Fit to be tied." Seeing Tavington's blank look, he translated. "Pretty angry, sir. I can't say he didn't have some hard words for you. But there's plenty of blame to go around. If he hadn't pushed us too hard, or sent in the infantry too early, it might have all been different, so there's no talk about court martial, or anything like that, if that's what's worrying you. In fact, the Lord General's beginning to see that he'd have a hard time replacing you."

Tavington huffed a faint laugh. It hurt. He looked at Wilkins' guileless face. "Captain, it appears that I owe you my life. Let me express my deepest gratitude."

"Think nothing of it, Colonel," Wilkins beamed. "I was bound to look after you. You know that picture of Aunt Sarah Jane Minerva's? Well, before we left to go north, she pulled me over to look at it, and she said 'You'll look worse than that, if anything happens to Colonel Tavington. He's Lizzie's last chance at life, and don't you forget it.'" He offered Tavington some water, which was accepted gratefully. "Besides, Colonel, like I said before, a man's got to stand by his kin."

Wilkins sat there, brave and softhearted, honest and loyal; and Tavington was ashamed of himself for having despised him. _So, too, the Lord General must have despised me as a mere tool for his use._

Wilkins went on, "As soon as you're a little better, Smith says they'll send you down to Camden to the fort hospital. I was thinking that maybe you'd rather stay at the house, though. Aunt Sarah Jane Minerva sure thinks a lot of you, and Lizzie would want to nurse you herself. What do you think?"

Tavington swallowed, and managed, "I think that sounds perfect."

Author's notes: It is difficult to balance fact and fiction fairly when history and _The Patriot_ are so widely at variance, so I have felt able to make some choices for myself in this chapter. I am indebted to the recent book about Cowpens, Lawrence Babbits' _A Devil of a Whipping_, for information about the weather and relative condition of the troops at the battle. The battle in the film is not much like the real Cowpens. It is set in the wrong month, and has Cornwallis in command. I have no idea what the picturesque ruins in the middle of the battlefield are meant to represent. On the plus side, the tactic, attributed to Martin in the film, but really the inspiration of Morgan, of using the militia to lure the British in and then using the regulars to flank them is factual. So too, is the deceptively rolling ground that hid the balance of Morgan's forces. For purposes of my story, I have elected to keep Cornwallis, but to use the correct date of the action (January 17, 1781). The incident I mention about the rebel turncoats changing sides yet again is true. Banastre Tarleton received no severe wounds at Cowpens, and thus, I felt it not only my right, but my duty to preserve the life of his fictional counterpart, William Tavington. Flame me all you like: I care not. Tavington lives! 

Surgeon Smith and surgeon's assistant Rob Fraser were real; as, by the way, is every British Legion officer I mention by name in this story, with the exception of Bordon, Wilkins, and Tavington himself (the film makers' creations), and David McKay, who is my own invention.

A moment for historical fiction fantasizing: The Captain Sharpe Tavington refers to as his first mentor is not the Richard Sharpe whose adventures have been recounted by Bernard Cornwell. Tavington's former superior, Thomas Sharpe, was a great-uncle of Rebecca, Lady Crawley, whose story was told by Thackeray in _Vanity Fair_. By a fantastic coincidence, Cornwell's Sharpe bears the same last name—fantastic because Richard Sharpe was actually Tavington's son, begotten on the eve of Tavington's departure for the colonies on a betrayed governess-turned-prostitute named Isabella Sharpe. Though the actor portraying Sharpe in the television productions, Sean Bean, does not resemble Tavington, a look at the actual books will reveal the likeness (dark hair, light eyes, good with a cavalry sabre despite the fact that Sharpe is an infantryman). Tavington would have been proud of Sharpe's accomplishments, but not of his poor horsemanship.

My thanks to my loyal reviewers: Zubeneschamali, Foodie, Tara Rose, Slytherin Dragoon, Ladymarytavington, JaneyQ, Anchovyeater, VivienneTavington, angelfish, uptosomething, Lintasare; oh, and yes, myself, when in a particularly weird and sulky mood. I was very cheered by the good responses I received to Chapter Sixteen, which was painful to write. I hope you will continue to enjoy the story, and find interesting the direction I will take in future chapters.


	18. Chapter Eighteen: The Blue Room

_Disclaimer: I do not own the rights to The Patriot_. _Nothing has changed since last week _ CHAPTER EIGHTEEN: The Blue Room 

His mind was travelling strange roads: sometimes showing him the past, sometimes showing him the things for which he had most hoped. His father was standing by his bedside, ashamed and apologetic. Tavington tried to shout at him. He wanted to tell him he was being duped—that his investments were worthless—that his false friends were laughing at him while they milked him of every penny. _How could you do this to us?_ He tried to shout at his father, but could not, because they were on horseback, inspecting Tavington's estates in Ohio. The sky was a clear, heavenly blue. His father was smiling at him with loving pride. With a wink, his father leaned close, and said to him, "You see, my boy? I told you it would all come right in the end."

Elizabeth, Amelia, and Julia were standing nearby on the front porch at Arcadia with Margaret and Celia. His mother was there too! They were all getting on so well. They were speaking about him, and he heard a whisper, "Look! He's smiling!"

Elizabeth gave him a sweet, languorous smile, and said softly to Celia, "Perhaps he's having a pleasant dream!"

He was in bed, and his lovely mother was stroking his hair back from his brow. She was still alive! He must be home from school. He must be sick. 

"Sleep, dearest. It's the best thing for you now."

"Mamma," he breathed.

He awoke in a room unfamiliar to him.

Not that it was a bad room. It was infinitely better than the hospital, with its straw stinking of blood, urine, and feces. It was infinitely better than the jolting wagon that had carried him to Camden. It was handsomely furnished, and painted blue. There was a comforting fire crackling on the hearth. Something soft brushed his right hand. Carefully, he turned his head to look. Elizabeth had fallen asleep at his bedside, sitting on the floor, her head resting near his hand. 

He laid his hand softly on her hair. Unbound, it fell below her waist. He had seen her hair unbound once before, and had dreamt of it often. He could feel the warmth of her through it. She stirred, and looked up at him. She rose, and leaning over him, kissed him softly on brow, cheeks and lips. He wondered if he should be embarrassed to be alone with Elizabeth, naked but for his bandages and the sheet and quilt covering him, smelling her rosewater-scented hair; but it all seemed perfectly natural, and not unpleasant.

"It _is _you," he said quietly. "I thought perhaps it was the laudanum again."

"No, I am here with you." She looked troubled. "Are you in pain? Do you need some more---"

"No," he said. "Just sit here with me." He looked around again. "I take it I am upstairs at your aunt's. I thought the house was already full."

"George gave up his room to you. Aunt had a bed made up for him in the attic."

"That's very good of him."

"Not that he was given a choice. But, still, he was happy to do something for you. You are his idol."

"A fallen idol."

"No less dear for all that." She kissed him again, very softly, as if afraid of hurting him.

"What of your pupils?"

She smiled. "What of them? Amelia has stepped in. She is only a little younger than I was when I came home to educate my sisters. She is doing admirably."

"Everyone seems to be doing admirably but me." The pain of failure hurt Tavington worse than any wound. He had been defeated, for the first time since he became a soldier. His enemy had put his mark on him, and yet lived. 

He turned away, ashamed to face her. 'I have failed myself and you," he whispered.

Elizabeth looked at him, bewildered. "My dearest, how can you speak to me so? You are alive—do you know what Charlotte would give for Frank to be alive, however badly wounded?"

"You don't understand," he said. _However disgraceful the truth, she must know this someday. Better from my own lips._

"The Lord General had promised me an estate from his own land grant in the Ohio Territory, were I to deliver the Ghost to him. I have done everything in my power. I have done things—things that I would not have done otherwise. Still I have failed. All those dishonourable acts were in vain."

Elizabeth took him gently in her arms, his head resting against her breast. "My dearest William," she said quietly. "I am neither blind nor deaf, nor a fool. I know something of which you speak. I know how much you want to provide a future for us. But tell me one thing." She paused and took a breath. "Do you like Lord Cornwallis?"

He was baffled by the question. "Like him? Well, no, I cannot say I like the man. He has given me little reason."

"Then why, my love, were you willing to make a bargain with him that would have tied us to him forever as his vassals and dependents?"

He lay still for awhile, listening to her heartbeat. He had never considered his agreement with the Lord General in such a light.

Elizabeth went on. "You know that any gift of land you received from him would have been hedged with all sorts of conditions and obligations. We would have danced to his tune for the rest of our lives."

She held him closer, stroking his hair away from his face.

"There are some people, even essentially good people, who can sense a need to distinguish oneself, a desire for recognition, a drive to rise above one's past; and those people cannot resist using and manipulating such desires and drives for their own ends. Do you really think his lordship would treat you as he does were you some titled halfwit with ten thousand pounds a year?"

He sighed.

Elizabeth kissed his brow softly. "The Lord General may be a great man, especially in his own mind." Tavington gave a tired laugh. "But he is not the King, and he is not the source of all patronage. We need care nothing for him; and he would treat you better if you made that clear to him. The Crown already wants settlers in the West Indies, in Canada, in Bermuda. We still have the possibility of the land in Kentucky. We can go where we choose and find a place of our own; and we will be beholden to none."

She bent over him, murmuring softly in his ear. "As I have let go of Arcadia, so you must let go of your need to win your commander's favour. As long you show him how much you desire it, he will withhold it. Let it go." She took a bowl of broth from the bedside table and began spooning it up. He turned his face away.

"Elizabeth."

"What is it, dearest?"

"Some things I have done recently—some things—very questionable. I must tell you--."

She was looking at him with such dread that he could not go on. "My dearest," she whispered, "tell me anything you like, if it eases you, but know that I love and trust you in any case."

"We killed everyone in Pembroke."

She sighed, "It is true, then. But they were rebels, were they not?"

"Probably not all of them. The children were not."

She sat on the edge of the bed, stroking his hair. "What is done, cannot be undone." She offered him some broth, and he took it more readily this time. 

She said, "The threatening letters have stopped. Some others in the town had received them, but they have stopped coming to them as well."

"That mystery is revealed."

"So it would seem. The loyal people here in town who have heard the rumours largely think the rebels have reaped what they have sown. And Lord Rawdon says that there has been no rebel activity from the entire area surrounding Pembroke for weeks. It was not wholly in vain, you see; however harsh your methods. I know that whatever you did, you did it to protect us, and to protect all who are loyal to the King."

Samuel Forrest, one of the surgeons from the fort hospital, visited once a day. He supervised the changing of Tavington's bandages, and was a source of endless advice about cleaning Tavington's wounds, giving Tavington his medicine, and keeping up Tavington's spirits. Tavington himself found him tiresome, if well meaning, and was glad when the man was gone each day. 

The work of nursing him fell to Elizabeth, helped by Charlotte Montgomery and a middle-aged slave woman who was introduced to him as Calypso. She was tall and lanky, and might once have been very good-looking. Tavington thought she, like Ganymede, had been in Miss Everleigh's service so long that she had taken on some of the mannerisms of her mistress. Calypso had as scornful a demeanour as Ganymede at his worst, but she was gentle enough, if rather stern, with Tavington.

Charlotte Montgomery's mild manner was not as irritating to Tavington, in his weakened state, as it had been before. Now he found it rather soothing. She said little, but had deft and very soft hands that tended him agreeably. She was an excellent barber, and was teaching Elizabeth how to shave him. Had he not been in pain, the attentions of two ladies, one smelling of roses and the other of lemon verbena, would have been a dream come true.

Whatever qualms Tavington might have had about Elizabeth tending to his most intimate needs were rapidly overcome. In the course of his first lucid interval with her, she had assisted him with a chamberpot in a calm way that had done much to allay embarrassment. He found himself very much looking forward to the times she bathed him, finding it tender and pleasurable to feel her hands upon him. He was a little surprised at Miss Everleigh allowing her innocent niece to perform such tasks, and said so late one evening.

"And what has she to say about it?" asked Elizabeth, serenely patting his right arm dry. She smiled down at Tavington. "She has not come upstairs in the past ten years. Who would say me nay up here? Charlotte?" She set the damp towel aside, and covered him warmly. "My love, I cannot claim to be a nurse of great experience, but I did help care for my father in his last days, and tended my brothers through many childhood ailments. The male body is not a complete mystery to me."

He must have looked a little disappointed, for she smiled again, and kissed him sweetly. Mollified, he kissed her back, comforting himself with the reflection that one day he might have more surprises in store for her than she suspected.

"Indeed," she continued, "we have few other options. Calypso must spend considerable time tending my aunt; and Charlotte has six children who cannot be left entirely to their nursemaid or to their cousins."

Tavington was not about to argue the point. He was only too happy to have Elizabeth's ministrations. Growing sleepy again, he whispered, "Lie down here with me."

She lay on top of the quilt, curled on her side beside him, her hand resting gently on the unbandaged portion of his chest. He could feel her soft breath against his shoulder, and she stroked his chest delicately, lingering over the fine dark hairs. The room was dim with shadows, and through the nearby window, he could see the stars of Orion.

As he dropped off to sleep, he heard Elizabeth murmur, "Besides, we are betrothed, and we are at war."

Tavington was impatient to improve, and constantly analysed the state of his body, his various wounds, his strength. He had had only one bad bout of fever since coming to the house. Some infection had drained from his lower chest wound, and he hoped that it would now heal more quickly. He was, in fact, beginning to feel well enough to be bored, when one afternoon he awoke to find not Elizabeth, but Julia, sewing quietly in the chair beside him. 

He smiled, taking the opportunity to look at her carefully. Children changed so quickly at her age. She was already a different girl than the pert little maiden who had greeted him from the veranda of Arcadia. Her face had thinned a little, beginning to lose its puppy fat, and she had grown notably taller. She looked more than ever like her eldest sister, especially now, as she bit her lip in concentration. She must have sensed his gaze, for she glanced at him, and then her face lit up, seeing him awake.

"Colonel!" She was out of her chair and hovering at his bedside in the blink of an eye. Tavington, in fact, did blink. She restrained herself enough to give him a gentle kiss on the brow, rather than the rib-cracking embrace that was her first impulse, judging from the way she was waving her hands. She seated herself cautiously on the edge of the bed, and took his right hand in hers.

"I'm so happy to see you awake! You can't imagine how worried we've been. When they carried you upstairs that day, we all thought you must be dead and we were so sad, but Lilabet said you were just tired out from the journey, and that we could see you when you were better, but she kept putting us off---" She took in the tiredness in his smile, for she softened her voice, and continued less impetuously.

"We've hardly seen Lilabet, but today Aunt ordered her to get out of the house and take some air, and that it was for her own good. And then Melly said she wanted to go to the hospital at the fort and see That Boy."

"Which boy?"

"_You_ know, that David McKay boy. Melly is in love with him! I know, because I looked in her journal, and in it she's written out the name 'Amelia McKay' about a hundred times."

"Julia."

"What?"

"You shouldn't pry into your sister's journal." Tavington tried to be serious, but could not help smiling. It was so very delightful to be near someone so alive.

"That's what Lilabet said, but I already had, so I know. Lilabet asked me how I would like anyone reading _my_ journal, but I don't write silly stuff, so I wouldn't care. At least I'm not making a fool of myself over a Boy."

"Was Mr. McKay badly wounded?"

"Pretty badly, Mr. Forrest says. He was shot in the lung, and they thought he was going to die, but he didn't; because Mr. Forrest says he's tough as old boots, just like you, and so it's going to be all right."

"Mr. Forrest said I was tough as old boots?"

"Yes, that's right. So anyway, Melly begged and begged to see That Boy, and told Lilabet she should understand; and Aunt said she couldn't go alone, because I guess it's a rough place and everybody's naked there—"

At this point, Tavington began to laugh, which hurt him enough to make the laugh come out as a pained groan. Julia looked frightened.

"Did I hurt you? I'm sorry! Should I go get Calypso?" She rose to leave, but Tavington held her hand.

"No, don't leave, but you mustn't make me laugh." She sat down again, looking serious. "Now tell me," he continued, "have they all gone to the hospital?"

"They called for the carriage, and Melly and Lilabet went, and Cousin Charlotte went with them because she's been married. They left Calypso here if you took a bad turn, and they told me to sit with you and not upset you or tire you out, or this time I would really be in trouble—" She gave him a smile and a little shrug. "Anyway, they took him some invalid food and some fresh linen and some books, and Melly went to hold his hand, or whatever it is they do."

Tavington frowned thoughtfully. "Books---would be pleasant." 

Julia was overjoyed. "Would you like me to read to you?"

"I would be greatly obliged to you. What would you like to read?"

"What would you like to hear? No—really, I'll read anything you like, even if it's _Pious Extracts_. Really. Whatever you like."

"I think we can save _Pious Extracts_ for another day. What is your favourite book?"

She smiled delightedly to herself, as if contemplating a feast. "Well," she began slowly, "I like _Gulliver's Travels_, and I like _Castle of Otranto_. and I like _Tom Jones_, but I wasn't supposed to read it yet, so don't tell. I used to really like the _Iliad_, but now I'm sick of it because of Melly."

Tavington essayed manfully to remain grave. "Dear me."

"She's always talking about it," Julia told him. "Ever since Lilabet had her write a composition 'comparing the current rebellion with the Trojan War,' she's always seeing the Trojan War everywhere. It's even worse now that she is studying Mr. Dryden's translation of the _Aeneid._ She compares everybody to people in it, as if we were all characters in a book. I don't like it: it worries me, especially when she called me Polyxena the other day. I don't want to be the Trojans, even if they are nicer."

"Well, then, we will leave out Homer and Virgil. Is there any other kind of book you particularly dislike?"

"Yes!" She grew even more animated. "I can't bear those novels that are all letters. They are so stupid. I'm glad nobody writes me such stupid long letters. If they did, I just wouldn't answer, and then they would leave me alone."

Tavington took a few, long, calming breaths.

Julia reflected briefly, and then asked him, "Do you like _Robinson Crusoe_?"

"It has been years since I read it. Yes, I remember I liked it very well."

"I like the first part best, when he's alone on the island, and salvaging the things he needs to survive, and making plans. I like it because he has problems, but he thinks about what to do, instead of just giving up."

Tavington fought down a shocking impulse to weep. He turned his head away from her a little, and said, "Why don't we begin right away?"

They were well launched on the story by the time Elizabeth returned. A brief exchange at his chamber door revealed that George Montgomery had been sitting outside, listening to the tale. Elizabeth allowed Julia to find a decent place to stop, and then chased the two children away.

She kissed him gently, asking, "Has she exhausted you? I told her to sit quietly and let you rest, but apparently that was beyond her."

"Don't blame Julia. I found it very entertaining." Elizabeth looked at him darkly, plainly thinking anything he might find entertaining could be hazardous in his current condition. Tavington refused to be cowed, and asked, "How is Mr. McKay?"

"Not well, but holding his own. He seemed very pleased to see us. You are smiling. Did Julia tell you her suspicions as to Melly's sentiments?"

"She told me what she had read in Amelia's journal." 

Elizabeth bit her lip, and appeared to be forcing a serious expression. "That was very wrong of her; and it was very wrong of her to look at Melly's journal in the first place. Melly is very young, and it is hard enough to endure a first love at that age, without the additional pain of seeing the loved one near to death."

Tavington had been forming a demand for the past few minutes. Now it emerged full-blown.

"I want some clothes."

"I beg your pardon?"

"I want some clothes. I cannot receive Julia, or indeed anyone else, in my current unclothed state. It is humiliating and indecent."

"It is more convenient that you be unclothed, when caring for your wounds."

"I want some clothes, and I want to relieve myself like a grown man. I would be glad of your assistance. Otherwise I shall venture it alone."

Obviously put out at his stubbornness, Elizabeth returned him scowl for scowl, but assisted him as he wished. He lay back on the bed afterwards, feeling that progress had been made.

Elizabeth asked, "Are you happier now?"

"Yes. Yes, I am. What about my clothes?"

"I think it would be a bad idea for you to lift your arms enough to don a shirt, but we will ask Mr. Forrest for his opinion. In the meantime, there is something you can put on. I shall fetch it, and be back shortly."

__

It was a beautiful banyan of dark red velvet. Tavington was amused and touched at the opulence of the garment. With it was a pair of matching slippers. Carefully, Elizabeth helped him slip the coat on, and knelt to fit the slippers to his feet.

The sight of the woman he loved kneeling before him was almost more than Tavington could bear. He laid his hand softly on her head, smoothing the cap that restrained the dark curls. How could he have been such a fool as to pursue a personal quarrel with Martin? How could he have put his hatred of an enemy before his duty to Elizabeth, or even before his duty as a soldier, and his duty to his men? Silently, Tavington swore that he would never, never again lose sight of what was most precious to him—his love and his honour.

Within a week, he was coming downstairs to dinner for the first time. It was made a great occasion by the inhabitants of Everleigh House; and it was all Amelia and Julia could do to shoo the little ones from under his feet as he carefully descended the stairs, Elizabeth by his side. 

He was ushered into the dining parlour, a place that had such meaning for him now, and was greeted by Miss Everleigh herself.

"Colonel! Back in good looks, I see! All the better. Now come and sit by me, and I'll tell you all the news that's fit to hear!"

Tavington smiled, genuinely glad to see the old lady again, and looking forward to some bracingly acid commentary. As he seated himself, he looked at her again, and was shocked. He had not seen her since Christmas, and she was now painfully thin, her yellowed skin tight over the bones. Her nose had a sharpened look to it, and he at once knew what such a change foretold. Miss Everleigh's eyes met his. She saw his reaction, and smiled ironically. She patted his hand.

"'_Well, we are all mortal_.' Ganymede! Serve the dinner while we are still alive to eat it!" 

Comfortable as his room was, it was very pleasant to be able to leave it at will, to take his meals with the family, and to lounge on a parlour sofa with a book. Elizabeth and the older children did their utmost to keep the little ones from troubling him unnecessarily, and generally achieved this by surrounding him: Elizabeth beside him, Amelia and Julia on hassocks in front of him, and George standing guard against an over-enthusiastic approach. Charlotte helped by keeping Frank and Sophie in the nursery with their baby sister. Jane and Mary were able to grasp that their Colonel must be protected, and had learned to play quietly with their dolls and their Noah's Ark. Sometimes Miss Everleigh joined them in the evening. More and more she did not. Julia often entertained them by reading from _Robinson Crusoe. _George's reading had improved to the point that he could sometimes take a turn.

Tavington found these evenings the sweetest time of all. The children would be sent up to bed with their candles: first Jane and Mary, then George and Julia, then Amelia half an hour later. Afterwards Tavington and Elizabeth could nestle together on the sofa, looking at the fire. It was a tantalising taste of married life. As Tavington grew stronger, he was finding it increasingly difficult to restrain his longing for Elizabeth. Occasionally, he regretted his decision to defer their marriage. He was on guard against himself, strictly regulating how he would let himself kiss his love, where he was allowed to caress her, what was forbidden him. When he found himself dwelling too long on the delightful plans he had for pleasing her, he would take himself off hastily to his solitary bed. Sometimes, however, he could distract himself with conversation.

One such night, she brought up the subject of their future home, and suggested that she could begin preparing for their household not only with her sewing, but with some sensible household purchases, including some slaves.

Tavington decided it would be foolish not to be perfectly explicit. "I find the idea of owning slaves distasteful."

She stared at him, astonished. "But, my dearest," she expostulated, "_Everyone _owns slaves."

"Everyone does _not_ own slaves," he contradicted. "Not even here in the South." He would not mention Benjamin Martin, and prayed that she would not either. 

She was still bewildered. "Are you an—advocate of the Abolition?"

"I have not thought on the subject to such a degree," he admitted. "I can only say that I myself, as an individual, do not wish to own other human beings." He was not entirely sure why the idea repelled him so. _Perhaps it was those years of being a poor relation, or perhaps because of my school, and being whipped on a schoolmaster's whim. No noble reason, probably. Maybe just because of Uncle Fitzroy-Hughes. I would prefer to never live under the same roof with someone who hates me as much as I hated him._

She looked into the fire thoughtfully. "Mother said it was difficult for Father at first too. Perhaps, my love, if you gave yourself time to become accustomed—"

He was unyielding. "I do not wish to become accustomed to such a thing. I have quite enough of life and death authority in the army. I will not own a slave."

"I suppose we could make do with servants. But it is really much simpler and less expensive to own slaves."

"I daresay it is. But we will make do with servants, as you say."

"Well," she said. "Well, then, there are probably places that would not be ideal for us. I really see no way to pursue sugar planting in the West Indies, for example, without—"

"Too hot."

"Too hot?"

"I have already considered climate. I do not want to live in a place with such hot weather and such a threat of fever."

She was more understanding of this issue. "I certainly agree that our summers can be unpleasant. I gather that Kentucky is more temperate, and there we might be able to farm tobacco without needing such a great number of labourers. I suppose hired men would do."

"Hired men have sufficed in England for centuries. I am sure they would suffice for us."

She still seemed perplexed by his dislike of owning slaves. Tavington was not sure she would ever quite understand his reasons; he was not quite sure he understood them himself, but it was enough for now that she would obey him. He kissed the frown away, and soothed, she smiled up at him and returned to the more important task of kissing him back.

Three days later, Tavington received a note. Lord Rawdon asked if he could have the favour of a visit. Tavington had always liked Rawdon. The Irishman was a straightforward fellow and a fine soldier, and had managed to get on well with Lord Cornwallis, without acting the sycophant. Still, Tavington could not help feeling anxious. Lord Rawdon would be calling to assess Tavington's health and his fitness for further command. 

He could at least receive Rawdon looking fairly respectable, as he could now manage shirt, breeches, and stockings, with the banyan over all. A new uniform was being tailored for him; and Elizabeth was sewing him yet another shirt because, as she wryly put it, "something apparently befell one of the shirts I made you." Wilkins had managed to retrieve his sword, and had seen to it that his belongings were sent with him in the wagon to Camden. Tavington would have to replace his pistols, and more importantly, his horse.

Rawdon appeared at the appointed hour, and was shown into the parlour by the unrelentingly dour Uncle Ganymede. Tavington and Elizabeth awaited him. Tavington had expected Miss Everleigh to join them, but Calypso had approached Elizabeth after breakfast, and informed her that Miss Sarah Jane Minerva was not feeling well enough to leave her bed that day. 

"My dear Colonel Tavington," smiled Rawdon, and bowed with his usual good manners as he and Elizabeth were introduced to one another. 

"You have grossly deceived us all, Tavington," laughed Rawdon, looking him over. "We had heard you were at death's door, and here you are instead, sitting at your ease with your lovely fiancée, looking quite the pasha!"

Elizabeth served them tea, while they chatted of the weather. Then, catching Tavington's eye, she excused herself and left the two men to talk.

"So, my dear fellow, how are you really?' asked Rawdon, looking Tavington over curiously.

"Really, my lord, I'm getting stronger all the time. I've had good care, my wounds have not mortified, the stitches are out, and I feel nearly myself. I wouldn't want to try a thirty-mile ride today, but soon it will not be beyond me."

"Cornwallis wants you back, you know." Rawdon gave Tavington an understanding smile. "The Green Dragoons don't do as well under anyone else. Your senior captain, Hovenden, is a good man, but he is not you. Cornwallis needs someone they trust, for moving fast and deep up into North Carolina. He wants to beard those Virginia rebels in their own lair, and he needs you to do it."

"It cannot be very pleasant for him to admit it," said Tavington frankly.

Lord Rawdon was thoughtful. "My dear Tavington, I don't pretend to understand what the difficulty is between the two of you, but I tell you it must stop, for all our sakes. Cornwallis is willing to shake hands and make a fresh start. Are you?"

"Yes," said Tavington, "Yes, of course; and I want to return to the Legion, just as soon as I am fit. I truly believe it will not be long. Another week—two at the most—and I will be ready to set out. Except—" He might as well tell Rawdon his situation. "Except I must find a horse. Mine, as you know----"

Rawdon's large nose quivered in distaste. "Damned disgusting, that. Imagine killing a fine animal with his own bloody flag! These rebels are a savage lot." Rawdon frowned, and then the frown changed to a smile. "You could have my spare horse, Aeolus! Damned decent animal, well-schooled, good lungs. I paid two hundred fifty for him, but seeing it's you, and we have to have you mounted, I'll let you have him for a round two hundred! What do you say?"

Tavington groaned inwardly. _I have only a little over five hundred pounds to my name, and I'm going to spend nearly half of it getting remounted!_ There was no help for it: the army would issue him a horse, but it would likely be one of the broken-down screws that were coming their way more and more often. War's casualties were not only human ones.

He managed a smile. "I should have a look at him myself, my lord, to see if we suit one another."

Rawdon laughed. "Good idea! I'll have my groom bring him around this Friday. Think you'll be up to it?"

"I know I shall."

Author's notes : Polyxena was the youngest of the daughters of Priam, King of Troy. She was sacrificed by the Greeks at Achilles' tomb after the fall of the city. Amelia was not one to communicate everything she was thinking, but one cannot help but wonder if she saw herself as Cassandra, Priam's prophetess daughter, who was under a curse never to be believed.

I realize that my Lord Rawdon is not speaking like a Barry Fitzgerald Irishman. Lord Rawdon was an Anglo-Irish Protestant nobleman, educated at Harrow and Oxford, and no mention is made of him having the then socially undesirable Irish manner of speech.

A banyan (also called an Indian coat or Indian gown) was a man's long dressing gown, used as informal wear around the house, typically over shirt, breeches, stockings, and shoes or slippers. I must pause a moment now to consider the inflammatory effect of Sweet William, hair loose about his manly shoulders, clad in frilly shirt and red velvet dressing gown. Oh, my.

Marg B. will understand the pasha reference. I must take this opportunity for expressing my obligation to her for her wonderful Tarleton website, which has been an invaluable source of historical information.

To Vivienne Tavington: no, the Tavington/Sharpe thing is entirely my own invention. 


	19. Chapter Nineteen: Remember Me

_Disclaimer: I do not own the rights to the Patriot, nor to the music of Henry Purcell. _

CHAPTER NINETEEN: Remember Me 

Though still not perfectly well, Tavington could wait no longer to rejoin the army. The past two weeks had done much to restore his strength; whether loafing on the sofa, listening to the girls' music lessons, or dawdling about with a book. The reading of _Robinson Crusoe_ gradually had become a family project, and was now complete. 

Lord Rawdon's horse, Aeolus, had been duly brought out for his approval. He was a handsome chestnut stallion, sixteen hands high, with a smooth action and a good temper. Tavington knew he would do no better, and paid out the precious two hundred pounds accordingly. _Aeolus, God of the Winds_, thought Tavington, _let us hope it is a good omen!_ Tavington made the effort to exercise the animal himself, a little longer each day.

A few days later, George Montgomery had approached him, looking about to see if they were being overheard.

"Pardon me, Colonel sir."

"What is it, Mr. Montgomery?" asked Tavington, deeply engrossed in Miss Everleigh's enscribed copy of _Micrographia._

The boy paused, obviously making an effort to stand straight and not fidget. He said, "Please, sir, would you teach me how to fight with swords?"

Tavington put down his book and looked at George. Getting up, he motioned for the boy to follow him, and went outside. It was a mild South Carolina winter, not too cold to exercise out-of-doors in shirt and waistcoat. When Tavington paused by the dogwood tree, the boy backed off a little, and then was reassured when he saw Tavington breaking off two thin, fairly straight branches, and then breaking them further to about the same length. 

"Over here, then," said Tavington, stepping away from the house and the nearby trees. He gave one stick to George, and kept another for himself. "All right, Mr. Montgomery, show me how you would hold your weapon. No, quite wrong. Here." Working with the boy on his grip, he then moved on to show him the advance, the retreat, and the lunge. Using muscles that had been idle for too many weeks was a reminder to him that he had to start exercising with weapons again, as well as on horseback. 

"Keep your weight centered, or you'll fall on your face in front of the enemy. Then he'll have a good laugh while he's killing you." The boy looked at him wide-eyed. "I know. I've found it very amusing myself." He kept the boy practicing his basic movements for quite a while, then told him, "Now, try to run me through." The boy hesitated. "He who hesitates is lost, Mr. Montgomery. I want you to lunge and try to run me through."

"I don't want to hurt you."

Tavington rolled his eyes. "Most unlikely, sir. Now do as I say, or the lesson will be over."

George positioned himself and performed a creditable lunge. Tavington parried casually, and knocked the stick from the boy's hand.

"That was amazing!" cried George.

"No, that is swordplay, Mr. Montgomery. I parried your thrust. I want you to work a little longer on the movements I taught you today. Tomorrow, I shall show you some of the parries."

Elizabeth, seeing them from upstairs, opened the window and called out, "William, what are you doing?"

"George and I are fencing. I thought that was fairly obvious!"

"George doesn't need to know how to fence!"

"Oh, I don't know," said Tavington, giving George a sly smile, to which the boy responded delightedly. "Someday it may save his life."

"My dearest—" Elizabeth protested.

"Elizabeth, I do not interfere with your lessons. Please do not interrupt mine."

She was silent, and left the window. Tavington was resigned to further conversation on the subject later.

His new uniform complete and properly fitted, he had next ridden out to the fort. He needed to talk over the campaign plans in greater detail with Rawdon; and he wanted to visit Bordon and McKay, and some of the other men of the Legion at the fort hospital. 

Forrest showed him off to his fellow surgeons, as proud as if he had built Tavington himself. Tavington was made to strip off his shirt and be prodded and his healing scars admired by the other sawbones at the hospital. He wondered if he would someday be written of in one of their revolting medical books. He had recovered rapidly, but such cases were not unheard of. He admitted to them that his scars did pain him occasionally, but he was assured that this would decrease with time.

David McKay looked frail and ill, but the boy smiled bravely at the sight of his Colonel. Tavington felt badly about McKay. He had, to some extent, lost control of himself at Cowpens, and it would be one thing if he alone had paid the price of his impetuosity, but that was not the case. Good young soldiers, like McKay, lying there, depended upon him for more than courage. They required leadership and sound judgement. He was determined that his judgement not fail him again. War was no place for private quarrels. If Cowpens had taught him nothing else, it had taught him that. _But of course it taught me more_, he thought, helping the boy to a drink of water. _It taught me about my own mortality. It taught me to think about what is most precious to me—what is truly worth fighting and dying for. _

"How is Miss Amelia?" asked McKay, who then blushed as much as his bloodless state allowed. "I mean, sir, how are all the ladies? They are so kind to visit me." Due to Amelia's insistence, they did in fact visit at least once a week.

"They are quite well, especially Miss Amelia," replied Tavington with an amused smile. "They will remain so if you continue to improve."

Tavington then went to see Bordon. His captain had not been as lucky as Tavington: his wound was badly infected. Tavington spoke to the surgeon in charge, and found the man unsure of Bordon's prognosis. Tavington decided to make up his own mind. He found that Bordon had lost a great deal of weight, and was nearly as weak as McKay, but he had one advantage. Polly Featherstone had taken up residence at the hospital and was providing him with constant care. Tavington hardly recognized her. She, too, had lost weight; and pale and unpainted, she more resembled one of the nursing sisters Tavington had seen in France years ago, than the harlot she was. 

"You're looking very fit, sir," whispered Bordon. 

"Thank you, Captain. And I see now, why you're making the good progress the surgeons told me of." He gave a smile and a nod to Polly, who hovered over Bordon protectively, as if afraid Tavington would order him out of bed and into battle on the spot. 

Bordon took Polly by the hand, and smiled slightly. "Polly's been an angel of mercy. If I live, it will be entirely her doing."

"Don't talk nonsense!" said Polly, quietly fierce. "You are going to live and there's nothing more to say about it!" She gave Tavington an defiant look, daring him to say otherwise.

"You see, Bordon," said Tavington, with mock gravity. "You are going to live. Polly's orders." Bordon smiled again, more sleepily now, and his eyelids drooped. Tavington saw that he needed to rest and he motioned to Polly to follow him as he left the captain's bedside.

In the doorway, Tavington pressed some money into her hand. "Polly, if the worst happens, write to me, and I'll ----"

She cut him off without ceremony; "He's going to live. I couldn't save my Major, but I won't lose Hugh." She looked at the coins, and then prudently accepted them. "He's going to be all right, if I can keep the surgeons from bleeding him to death."

"I pray you are right. If anyone can restore him, it will be you." He kissed her brow, like a brother. "Good luck to you, my dear."

Later, meeting with Lord Rawdon, he looked about the room. This is where he had had so many unpleasant interviews with General Lord Cornwallis. Nothing of his former commander lingered there. Rawdon greeted him with great cordiality, had him sit down and offered him tea. Tavington was glad of the chance to rest. The ride to the camp and the visit to the hospital had been more taxing than he had anticipated. 

Some of the remaining Legion infantry were to stay in Fort Carolina, on garrison duty. Out of the rest, a new troop of dragoons had been constituted, and were now mounted, after a fashion. Tavington would be rejoining the Dragoons in North Carolina, where they would be used to scout Cornwallis' advance into Virginia. It would be a long, risky, and arduous venture. It would be nearly impossible to maintain contact with Rawdon after several hundred miles. Cornwallis hoped to pursue, trap, and destroy the Colonial regulars, and to render their Virginia heartland harmless. Once they reached the sea, Sir Henry Clinton would sail down from the north and join with them. 

It was a gamble. That was clear. There were indeed other options, but none of them were particularly attractive either. The Whigs in Parliament were furiously attacking the cost of the war. It was perfectly certain that no matter how dire the army's situation, no major reinforcements would be forthcoming. Whatever they could do, they must do with current resources.

"You know, Colonel," said Rawdon, hesitantly, "there are some who think we should just leave the northern colonies and Virginia to themselves, and content ourselves with partition."

"I hadn't heard," said Tavington. "What exactly does that mean?"

"Well, as you know, the most loyal of all the colonies are Georgia and the Carolinas. We have a real majority of the people behind us here, and it has been suggested," he paused, and Tavington wondered if it was Rawdon himself who had suggested this. "It has been suggested that we should concentrate on securing these three colonies, ridding ourselves of the enemies here, and establishing well-protected borders. Let the rest of the rebels rot! With these three colonies, and our territories in Florida and west to the Mississippi, not to mention Canada in the north, we would still have control of North America, and we gradually could encircle and strangle the rebel colonies into submission."

"It sounds like a reasonable plan, my lord, but a very long-term one."

"Yes, that's the problem. Too many people just want to get it over with. No great reputations or great rewards with a long-term plan! At any rate," Rawdon sighed, "Cornwallis' preferred plan is to go north and engage the enemy. We must do the best we can with it."

"Indeed we must, my lord." 

Tavington had planned to look for pistols while he was at the fort, but found that he was simply too tired to make any more decisions that day. He rode wearily back to the Everleigh house. He confessed to himself that Aeolus' smooth gait and good behaviour would make his life easier than it might have been with a more temperamental horse. Still, the expense rather depressed him. He wondered how much he would have to pay out for a decent set of pistols.

George came out of the house as Tavington approached, and took the horse back to the stable for him for the groom to tend to. Tavington was grateful for the boy's thoughtfulness. He entered the house, undecided between going upstairs to bed, or just incontinently throwing himself onto a parlour sofa for a nap. The parlour was closer.

Tavington was very happy. He was sitting in front of a comfortable fire with Elizabeth on his lap. She was exquisitely unclothed, and he had pulled her inside his velvet banyan. Her lovely dark curls brushed tantalisingly against his cheek. She was bending down to kiss him—

"William."

He awoke with a start. Elizabeth was bending over him, stroking his face. He pulled her close and kissed her deeply, unsure if he was still dreaming or waking. She smiled as she broke the kiss.

"It is time for dinner. I thought I would wake you myself, or would you have preferred Uncle Ganymede?"

Tavington grunted expressively. "I was dreaming of you."

"That is flattering, for you see me all the time anyway."

He frowned. "Not for much longer, my love." The fire was blazing on the hearth. That had been real, too.

"When will you leave us?"

"Wednesday next. That will give me time to rest a little more and look out a good pair of pistols." He rose and went in to dinner with her. Miss Everleigh's place was empty. The old lady was failing rapidly, and Tavington was surprised at how grieved he felt. She was an original; and malicious and spiteful as she sometimes was, she had been a good friend to him and a generous kinswoman to Elizabeth and her sisters. She was one of those individuals who could not be replaced, for there was no one quite like her.

Amelia asked Tavington, "Did you see Mr. McKay?"

"Yes," answered Tavington.

Amelia sat fidgeting a moment, while Tavington grew more and more amused.

Amelia gave in. "And was he well?"

Julia was unable to repress an unladylike snort of laughter. Amelia flushed angrily.

Tavington said, "He was doing well, and he asked after—who was it? Some lady I know." He smiled at her, and she smiled back, somewhat abashed.

It was all so comfortable—so familial. Tavington knew he would miss everything about it when he left. He went to his bed early that night, tired and a little melancholy. _When shall we all be together again?_

The next day, they gave him the pistols.

It was immediately after breakfast that Elizabeth, Amelia, and Julia took him into the parlour, looking serious. George wanted to follow them, and was hurt when Julia told him it was a "family conference." Elizabeth, more kindly, whispered to him that they had a secret to tell Colonel Tavington, but that George should be the very next to know. The boy stationed himself outside the parlour door, as it shut behind Tavington and the Misses Wilde.

"There is no reason you should not have them."

Elizabeth was a little vexed at his reluctance.

Amelia seconded her. "We _want _you to have them."

"We want you to have them and shoot a lot of rebels with them," added Julia.

Tavington laughed, but he could not help taking the pistols from their case and looking them over covetously. They really were splendid weapons. He would never be able to afford such a pair, and yet he hated the idea of risking part of the girls' inheritance in battle. Still, as he handled them and found how perfectly balanced they were, how well they suited him, he felt his resistance weakening.

Elizabeth said, "I'm sure my father would be very happy that you should have them and make the good use of them we know you will. My poor father---when he and Richard joined the army, Mother was so grieved: Father was an artist, Richard a scholar, and she told them they wouldn't last five minutes against a real soldier. Well, they lasted a little longer, but Richard not much. I daresay Richard was quite at a loss at Brandywine, and then he came across—" she looked gravely at Tavington, "someone like you, and that was the end of him."

Her sisters sat silently on the couch together, and then Julia said, "Please take them. That way you'll have a token from us, like the knights of the olden days, and you won't forget us."

"Julia, my dear, I could never forget you—any of you. And I am loath to leave you defenseless."

Amelia smiled. "We are not defenseless. A good friend gave me this." She reached into her skirt, and pulled the little pistol from the pocket tied underneath.

He could not hurt them. "I am most grateful to you all."

The last few days passed in a kind of mist. Books, music, George's fencing lessons: all seemed remarkably pleasant and agreeable. Tavington and Elizabeth were more than commonly tender with one another, as their time together grew shorter. Every kiss, every touch seemed especially precious. Tavington feared that Elizabeth would beg to join him, and prayed she would not. This time, almost none of the wives or even camp women were going along. Most would be left with the garrison in Camden. The army, with the Green Dragoons in the lead, would be moving faster than ever.

Now at last the two weeks were over. Tuesday night, they had an especially wonderful dinner. They lingered over it, smiling with a kind of painful joy. When they withdrew to the parlour, they found Miss Everleigh sitting in her chair.

She was very nearly skin and bone, looking much smaller without her large wig. She still wore her pearls, and a beautiful cap trimmed with the lace Tavington had given her. The smile she gave Tavington was very nearly a death's head grin, but Tavington had to smile back at the old lady's brave effort. She motioned feebly for him to come and sit by her.

"No, the other sofa," she said, fretfully. "I can see your face better there. No point in having a good-looking man in my parlour, if I cannot have a good look at him." She spoke to Elizabeth, "Lizzie, I had Calypso put some music on the pianoforte. I want you to sing the songs I marked."

"Of course, Aunt." Elizabeth seated herself at the instrument and looked through the music on the stand.

"My mother," said Miss Everleigh, "was very fond of the music of Mr. Henry Purcell. I thought I would like to hear some of those old songs. When I am gone, there will be no one in the world who remembers my mother, but at least the children will know something about her."

__

"Music, music for awhile

Shall all your cares beguile---"

As Elizabeth sang, Miss Everleigh had a comfortable chat with Tavington. "So, Colonel, the time has come when I have to break down and make some decisions about my property. I don't intend to leave this house to Elizabeth. No offense, but I think you've made a few too many enemies in these parts to settle here. My nephew James too."

"I believe you are right."

__

"'Til Alecto free the dead,

From their eternal bands."

"I don't gainsay anything you've done, but I wouldn't care for either of them to wake up in a burning house." Her eyes held their old malicious sparkle, and she laughed. "No, there's no reason to keep it a secret. I'm going to leave the house to Charlotte's children. Charlotte's a fool, and she'll certainly marry again, so I don't want anyone able to sell the house until the children are grown. At least her litter will have a roof over their heads. There's a condition, though, that the Wilde girls can live here as long as they like. I won't have Charlotte's family turning them out, while you're off acting the hero."

"I owe Mrs. Montgomery a great deal. I am glad her family will be provided for."

__

"'Til the snakes drop from her hair,

And the whip from out her hands."

Music, music for awhile,

Shall all your cares beguile."

The song was over. Miss Everleigh told Elizabeth, "That was good. Almost as good as my mother, Lizzie. Now the next one. It's quite unusual." She smirked at Tavington. "Bess of Bedlam."

__

"From silent shades, and the Elysian groves,

Where sad departed spirits mourn their loves;

From crystal streams, and from that country where Jove crowns the fields with flowers all the year,

Poor senseless Bess, cloth'd in her rags and folly,

Is come to cure her lovesick melancholy."

Elizabeth shot a hostile glance at her frail old relative, and returned to her song.

Miss Everleigh considered him awhile, and then said abruptly, "You know, if you ride off tomorrow and leave Lizzie behind, there's a good chance you'll never see one another again."

"She cannot come with me. None of the other wives are coming. And we will be together someday. I know it."

__

"Did you but see my love as he pass'd by you?

His two flaming eyes if he come nigh you, 

They will burn up your hearts!

Ladies, beware ye,

Lest he dart a flame that may ensnare ye."

"Well, I hope all may be well." Miss Everleigh looked at him with pleasure. "At least she'll have a good-looking husband."

Tavington did not bother to hide his annoyance.

"Why be embarrassed by your handsome face, Colonel? It seems to me that you could have made better capital of it than winning a dispossessed colonial spinster. You'd think there were no heiresses in England!"

__

"Poor Bess will return to the place whence she came,

Since the world is so mad she can hope for no cure—"

Tavington observed bluntly, "One always wonders why others make such curious choices. I, for one, have always wondered why you chose to live in a small provincial town, when you could sharpen your wit against less rustic folk!"

"Ha!" Miss Everleigh gave a delighted caw, distracting everyone from Elizabeth's song, and their own conversations. Miss Everleigh leaned toward Tavington and confided. "When you are as old as I, my boy, you may find it no bad thing to be a big fish in a small pond!"

Elizabeth was sitting grimly at the instrument. "I would prefer not to sing "The Fatal Hour."

Her aunt was unsympathetic. "Oh, Lizzie, how you refuse a old woman's last---"

Elizabeth interrupted with, "Very well." She gave Tavington a look clearly expressing her feelings.

__

"The fatal hour comes on apace,

Which I had rather die than see,

For when fate calls you from this place,

You go to certain misery."

Tavington blazed at Miss Everleigh. She chuckled, and grinned even more like a death's head. Julia, Amelia, Charlotte, and even George began to sniffle a little.

__

"The thought does stab me to the heart,

And gives me pangs no word can speak,

It wracks me in each vital part,

Sure when you go, my heart will break."

She finished, and sat slumped at the pianoforte. Julia came and put her arm around her. Tavington started to get up, but Miss Everleigh caught his hand, and called out, "Just one more, Lizzie, that's all I ask."

Elizabeth turned to the marked page. "You cannot possibly want me to sing this."

"Yes I do," stoutly replied Miss Everleigh. "It's a beautiful song, and it's my last chance to hear it. Melly, you'll like this. It's from the opera _Dido and Aeneas_." Amelia perked up, interested. "Poor Dido sings her farewell, after her hero Aeneas has gone off and left her."

Tavington considered choking her. _Only this woman would use her imminent death as an excuse to torment her relations!_

Elizabeth sighed, and rolled the opening chord of a recitative.

__

"Thy hand, Belinda, darkness shades me:

On thy bosom let me rest:

More I would, but Death invades me:

Death is now a welcome guest."

She began the descending chromatic octaves.

__

"When I am laid, am laid in earth,

May my wrongs create no trouble, no trouble in thy breast.

Remember me, remember me,

But ah! Forget my fate."

The company listened, and sat silently afterward: most in sorrow (Charlotte shedding tears as if she loved Aunt Sarah Jane Minerva more than anything in the world), Miss Everleigh is satisfaction, Elizabeth in exhaustion, and Tavington in baffled outrage. _Would knocking her down be more socially correct than strangling her?_

Miss Everleigh spoke up. "Well, that was mighty delightful, Lizzie. This is almost as good as getting to see my own funeral. Sad faces, good music, everyone saying kind things about the departed."

"How do you know they would be kind things?" asked Julia. 

"_Because,_ Julia," ground out Elizabeth, "one doesn't speak ill of the dead."

"Why not?" asked Julia pragmatically. "It's pretty safe, isn't it?"

Miss Everleigh burst out laughing, and Tavington had to laugh as well.

"Julia," said Miss Everleigh, 'don't you ever let your sister make too proper a lady of you! Now go find Calypso, and tell her I want you to bring my jewelry box in here. Let's decide who's going to get what!"

"Aunt," objected Elizabeth with great weariness, "That's utterly ghoulish!"

"Yes, isn't it? But utterly amusing too!"

They departed severally to their chambers afterwards. Calypso helped Aunt Sarah Jane Minerva down the hall to her room, Ganymede lighting the way. The others took their candles and ascended the stairs, murmuring excitedly. Amelia and Julia were admiring their new pearl earrings; George was enchanted with his great-great-grandfather's gold watch; Charlotte was sobbing over a garnet cross and a small box of jewelry with pieces designated for each of her little girls.

Elizabeth sat wearily on a hassock by the fire. Aunt Sarah Jane Minerva had promised her the splendid pearl necklace she always wore, "But not until I'm actually dead, Lizzie!" Tavington came and sat in the chair behind the hassock, and began gently to stroke Elizabeth's neck and shoulders. She turned toward him, and laid her head on his knee.

She murmured, "You may shoot me, if I'm like that when I'm old."

"If you are like that when you're old, I probably shall." She lay quietly, while he delicately traced the lines of her ear, her jaw, and then ran his finger down the arch of her nose and playfully tugged on the tip. She gave a muffled laugh, and batted his hand away. Sitting up, she looked at him gravely. "I suppose you should go to your bed, if you are to leave in the morning."

He rose, and lit a candle for each of them. Ganymede was standing discreetly in the shadows of the entry hall, waiting to close down the house for the night. Tavington gave Elizabeth his arm, and they went upstairs together.

Tavington envisioned a future night when he and Elizabeth would be thus, and would not be parted after. They reached the upper hall, and were reluctant to separate. She glanced up at him and trembled; and then took his hand and led him to his doorway.

"My dearest, it will be so long before we shall see one another again. I truly fear—"

"We _shall_ see one another again." He disengaged his hand, and slid his arm around her, pulling her fast against him. Their candles threw fantastic shadows on the walls around them. He bent and kissed her slowly, savouring her, and committing her to memory.

She whispered, "My dearest, I am yours. If you wish---"

He silenced her with another kiss. "And I am yours. Do not think otherwise." Between his aching need and the appalling fate that might be hers if he failed in honour, there was no choice to be made. He guided her, arm about her shoulders, to her room; kissed her hand, and left her.

He was going north with a detachment of the 17th, rejoining the Legion. His effects had already been sent ahead to be packed in the baggage wagon. He made the rounds of the servants, giving them each a present of money, and to Calypso, a larger amount, with thanks for her care. She regarded him impassively, and told him to take better care of himself in future. Breakfast was a brisk affair, everyone doing his or her best to maintain a brave face. Tavington felt he must bid farewell to Miss Everleigh, and asked for leave to do so.

He was admitted to her private chamber. Evidently as she had aged, the former front and back parlours had been converted respectively to her sitting room and bedroom. The scent of the house was stronger here. Elizabeth was by his side as he approached the old lady. She was so still and yellow, sitting in her chair by the front window, he wondered if she had already died; but she opened her eyes with a wry smile, and bade him come closer.

"I am on my way now, Miss Everleigh. I have come to say good-bye, and to thank you for your great kindness to me." He took her bony hand and kissed it.

She gave a little laugh, "I, kind? What rubbish! A deception in order to keep a gallant fellow about to admire." She turned her head a little, and Tavington, understanding the gesture, kissed the papery skin of her cheek. She addressed Elizabeth with a little of her old imperiousness. "Fetch me that packet on my dressing table, Lizzie."

Elizabeth went, and returned with a thick packet of folded and sealed papers. She handed them to her aunt, who looked at them reflectively. "This for you, Colonel, but I must have your word of honour that you will not open this packet until you rejoin your Green Dragoons up in North Carolina."

Tavington took the packet from Miss Everleigh, examining it curiously. "You have my word, of course."

"Be off with you now, if you must; but don't forget to marry Lizzie when you're tired of playing soldiers!" She waved him away impatiently. He smiled, bowed, and left.

The children were lined up outside to say goodbye, even the oblivious but friendly little Frank, and tiny Caroline in her mother's arms. He was grieved, but not surprised to see Amelia and Julia openly shedding tears; but he was touched, and a little exasperated to see that Jane, Mary, and even the small, exquisite Sophie were tearful as well. George was sniffling, and Tavington gave him a look of mild reproof.

It appeared the little Montgomery girls all wished to kiss him; so he permitted it. He bowed to Charlotte.

"I am in your debt, Madam."

Charlotte smiled, timid again now that he was no longer an invalid. She offered him the baby's small face, much as a hopeful dog-lover offers a favourite pet to a forbearing friend. He kissed the pretty infant politely, careful of his new uniform. He took Frank's grubby little paw, and gave George a proper handshake.

"I'll never forget you, sir," the boy choked out.

"Just --keep your weight centered, and you'll be all right."

Both Amelia and Julia embraced and kissed him; Amelia squeaking when she hurt herself on one of his buckles. She blushed and backed away. Both girls seemed quite incapable of speech. Elizabeth, quiet, and with her tears already shed, turned her face up to him and kissed him briefly but meaningfully.

"God keep you, my dearest," she whispered.

He put on his helmet, and swung into Aeolus' saddle. Drawing his sabre, he gave them all his grandest salute; with a smile including the watcher at the front window, the Montgomerys, Julia and Amelia. He caught Elizabeth's eye beyond his upraised blade; and with a final nod to his lady, sheathed his sword, and turned his horse toward the north, and war. 

Author's notes: Good swordsmanship did indeed save George's life at the Battle of Fallen Timbers in 1794.

Alecto is one of the Furies

Bedlam was the famous madhouse in London. The song is not a conventional ballad, but a more complex composition, using different meters and melodies to portray the mental confusion of the narrator.

Julia's remark about the safety of speaking ill of the dead is, alas, not mine. See L.M. Montgomery's _Anne of Windy Poplars_.


	20. Chapter Twenty: Of Guns and Drums and Wo...

**__**

Disclaimer: I do not own the rights to The Patriot, but Tavington and Wilkins can play in the historical universe . 

CHAPTER TWENTY: Of Guns and Drums and Wounds 

It took days to find the army.

Riding on past Hillsboro, he began to get a real feel for the current deployments. The Lord General, aggressive as always, was moving heaven and earth to track down Greene and force a battle. Tavington's scars ached. He was constantly on the alert for any of the wounds to reopen; but so far, his flesh was holding together.

Finally, near the forks of Deep River, he made contact with the outlying pickets. He rode past the 33rd, and was recognised. Someone must have alerted James Webster, their colonel, for the Scotsman came out to meet him, a broad smile on his face. Tavington dismounted and they shook hands. Webster was a good officer, and a brave man; and Tavington thought he could learn rather a lot from him about getting on with superiors.

"My dear Tavington! We thought we'd never see you in the saddle again!"

"Pleased to see you too, Webster. Where is the Lord General?

Webster pointed him in the direction of the headquarters tent, and then, at his request, told him where the Legion was encamped. 

"You won't stay for tea—or something stronger?"

"Another time, I thank you. It would be best to report in now, I think."

"I think you're right. His lordship's an impatient man, and now he's spoiling for a fight."

"Will the rebels give us one?"

Webster shrugged. "I think they'll have to. Your laddies bloodied them a few days ago at Weitzel's Mills. They're around here somewhere. And some of them are as ready to come to grips with us as my Lord Cornwallis could wish."

He rode up to the Lord General's tent, dismounted, and gave his name to the sentry outside it. The soldier looked at him again, with a hint of a grin, and went into the tent to tell his commander that Colonel Tavington was here and wished the favour of an interview. Tavington heard Cornwallis' low voice, but not the words. The sentry emerged, and saluting, told Tavington the Lord General would see him at once. Tavington straightened his back and took a deep breath before entering. 

Cornwallis was seated at his camp desk, and eyed Tavington thoughtfully for a moment before greeting him.

"Colonel Tavington. Lord Rawdon sent me a good account of your recovery, and wrote that you were willing to resume command of the Green Dragoons."

"I wish very much to return to my duty, my lord."

Cornwallis remained still a moment, in reflection. He then addressed Tavington in tones of the utmost gravity.

"Colonel, while you have been recovering in Camden, our situation has undergone rapid changes. The Colonials have been maneuvering about us for weeks, but at last they seem ready to give battle. The outcome of such a battle will be crucial. If we can break their army, we shall have won the war in the Carolinas, and can move on into Virginia virtually unopposed. Virginia is the heart of this rebellion, and it is my goal to attack it."

The Lord General paused, and seemed to wish some sort of response.

Tavington nodded, "Lord Rawdon gave me something of an outline of your plan, my lord."

"Then you must be aware how desperately important it is that we win!" said Cornwallis, with asperity.

"I am, my lord. Were we to lose, it could well be the end of all of us."

Cornwallis let out a gusty breath. "I am relieved that you understand the seriousness of the situation. The time for individual heroics is over. We must all work together if we are to succeed. If I give an order, I must know it will be obeyed."

"You need have no worry on my account." Cornwallis looked at him, slightly incredulous. "I have no desire to risk my own life or the lives of my men in pointless gestures. I do indeed understand the necessity of cooperating in order to achieve victory."

"You will admit that this is a rather new attitude on your part."

"I admit that I have had some time to consider what is worth my life, and what is not." 

Cornwallis relaxed almost imperceptibly in his chair. "Rawdon wrote that you have become engaged, Colonel. My felicitations."

Tavington was surprised at this turn in the conversation. He had, in fact, been engaged since the end of September, but apparently his commander had not known of it. 

"Thank you, my lord."

"And that your charming fiancée is the heiress of a large estate. I understand her father was the naturalist John Wilde. I have his book: a remarkable genius. A pity he died."

"A great pity, my lord. I too admired his work. I regret that I never met him." Tavington thought it unnecessary to describe Elizabeth's currently dispossessed condition. _Let him think her the Queen of the colony._

Cornwallis had thawed slightly. Tavington wondered if it was due to Tavington's expressed intent to be a more cooperative subordinate in future, or because he was allied in some way with a man Cornwallis admired. His general's next remark, however, showed that neither guess was correct.

"When one binds oneself to a lady, Colonel, it is only natural to recollect that one must consider the impact and influence of one's acts on an innocent and dependent party, not just on oneself. A man's life is no longer entirely his own; he, in part, must subordinate his own desires and ambitions to his duty to …."

Cornwallis was off on a ode to the sanctity of love between man and woman. Tavington remembered that Cornwallis' beloved wife had died last year. The General had been in America when told of his wife's mortal illness, and had resigned his command, hastening home to be with her for her last months. Only after her death had he returned to the army.

Apparently, the fact that Tavington had managed to win the affections and faith of a lady of fortune had raised him greatly in his commander's esteem. Tavington thought it rather peculiar, but indeed Cornwallis was just the man for it. _And now, my consequence has increased, not because of my military expertise, but because of my newly discovered sensibility._ He kept his countenance politely respectful. He certainly loved Elizabeth dearly, but as far as he could see, that had nothing to do with his worth as a soldier.

Cornwallis wanted him to use the Dragoons to patrol for enemy troop movements. Tavington headed toward the Legion's encampment. Surrounded by the activities and noises of camp life, he realised that he had missed the excitement of the army. It was loud, brash, and masculine: no music here but the fife and drum of the bandsmen, and the scents those of men and horses. As he approached, he saw faces turned his way, and a distant murmur, gradually rising in volume. Men stopped in their tracks, or hearing the shouting, ran out of their tents.

"It's the Colonel!" "It's Colonel Tavington!" "I told you they couldn't kill him!"

In less than a minute, he was surrounded by a jubilant, pushing crowd of his own men, reaching to touch his boots and welcoming him home to the Legion.

"Colonel Tavington, sir!" cried Hovenden, his senior captain, looking relieved. "Welcome back!"

He could see his officers gathering: Kinlock and Ogilvie; the captain of the new Dragoon troop, Francis Gildart; and Jacob James, who had replaced the ailing Tom Sandford. A head taller than most, Wilkins was making his way through the press, grin white and boyish.

"Good to see you again, sir!"

Tavington was gratified by the general enthusiasm. He had never, unlike some officers, aimed at being popular; but he was still pleased to see his men's joy at his return.

Dismounting, he nodded to his officers, "Thank you, it's good to be back."

A tent was quickly prepared for him, and he ate with his officers. So weary he could have put his head down on the table and slept instantly, he struggled to remain awake, and hear the various bits of camp gossip that were being bandied about. At last he could go gratefully to his quarters and throw himself on his cot. He hurt desperately at shoulder and at side; there was even an ache deep in his left upper arm that he had thought completely healed. The pain was brief, however, as he fell almost instantly into a deep, dreamless sleep.

He slept late the next morning, and then busied himself taking reports and inspecting the Legion's condition. It was somewhat better than it had been at Cowpens, but the men were still too tired and hungry for peak performance. Seeking out the battered German immigrant who served as the Legion's armourer, he found the man at his grinding wheel.

Tavington handed him his sabre and said, "Set the edge razor sharp." The armourer grinned, and went to work with a will.

He finally found the time to sit down on his cot and open the packet Miss Everleigh had given him. Breaking the seal, he found it contained a letter from her, another letter inside, and also a small square of thickly folder paper, containing something hard. He looked first at her letter.

__

February 21, 1781

My dear Colonel Tavington,

Since you seem determined to leave us, I feel that I should write in order to express my final thoughts to you. We shall certainly not meet again in this world. I have put off the common lot longer than most, but I feel the Reaper's breath on the back of my neck now.

I am bequeathing you some books in my will. Lizzie shall, of course, be keeping them for you. If you want them, you will simply have to come back and marry her. Among them are the volumes of my beloved Descartes, and the Micrographia_. I think it unlikely that anyone else in the family will appreciate them, or even, in the case of Descartes, be capable of reading them. I need hardly tell you that the _Micrographia _is quite valuable and will become only more valuable with time. _

Enclosed you will find another letter. I was quite surprised to hear from Mr. Stephen deLancey, a former beau of Lizzie's. I believe I told you the two of them were once engaged. He was a pompous dandy as a youth, and age seems not to have improved him. It took very little to chase him off when they were betrothed. I told him then that if he gave up while they both lived and she remained unmarried, he did not deserve her; but it seemed keeping his own good opinion of himself unchallenged was more important to him. 

The letter, as you will find, contains some very unpleasant reflections on your character, as well as some exceedingly unattractive information about your father. You know best if the former, the latter, or both are true. I care not. It would seem that Mr. DeLancey wishes to make use of a malicious old gossip to create dissension between you and my niece. As much as I might enjoy putting foxes in henhouses as a general rule, I will not be the tool of a smug poltroon. If he still wants Lizzie, he could call you out and fight for her like a man. You would kill him, of course. What a loss that would be!

Enough of such a tiresome fellow! Let us think no more of him. I wish to speak of you, and to tell you that knowing you has been the last great pleasure of my life. I cannot but feel that sometimes Time makes a mistake. At least there is something of me in Lizzie. Strange as it may seem, I do sincerely wish you every happiness.

As a token of my esteem, I enclose my mother's wedding ring. You will find it in the small paper package. It seemed suitable, as the set is an emerald, and Lizzie is so unaccountably fond of all that is green. I did not wish to give it to you earlier. You would simply have passed it on to Lizzie at once. I want you to carry it with you, and remember that you owe it to her. It is a slender thread at best, but it is all I have to bind you with.

I now bid you farewell for the moment that is our lifetime. Perhaps in the next world, I shall not have to be old. It would be absurd, I think, to greet my mother again and be older than she. I read one fool of a church father whose only sensible idea was that we are all thirty in Heaven. Thirty would be about right.

Do take better care of yourself. I would not be perfectly pleased to meet you again too soon, even if I could meet you in my thirty-year-old guise. 

I remain, sir, your sincere friend, 

S.J. M. Everleigh

Apprehensively, Tavington glanced over DeLancey's letter. As spiteful a document as he had ever read, it contained all the sordid details he had carefully kept from Elizabeth. His father's ruin she had known of, but not of his father's incarceration and the escape from debtors' prison, the hiding place in the Spitalfields brothel, and the final, shameful end; cutting his throat with his own razor. Everything Tavington feared seeing in the eyes of every acquaintance was detailed. It had indeed been the act of a true friend to keep this from Elizabeth. Someday he might tell her a version of the truth, but not for a long time. He could hardly bear to think of it himself. 

About himself, he read some libels he had known of before, and some new ones as well. A portion of the information contained was painfully true. Most of what was true, he had already confessed to Elizabeth. Some of what was false he had already denied. Some pieces of misinformation he would have to deal with in future; but he trusted Elizabeth, if she heard of them, to take them for what they were worth. It was a great pleasure to put the hateful missive in the fire.

He then unwrapped the small folded square of thick paper. Inside was a splendid ring indeed: a large square-cut emerald, partnered on either side by a diamond. He was no expert, but he could see the emerald's quality, the clarity and the sparks of blue deep in the green. Thoughtfully, he placed the ring in his waistcoat pocket, the one nearest his heart, and gave it a pat. It represented a promise and a pledge, and he would keep faith with it. 

Tavington welcomed the two days of rest he allowed himself. Soon enough, they were all on the move again, searching for Greene and his army. Cornwallis wanted the Dragoons out on night patrol as well, to be able to get him the quickest possible news of the enemy. By the afternoon of March 14th, they had discovered that Greene was about twelve miles away, near Guilford Courthouse.

Cornwallis ordered the baggage sent along with their sick to Bell's Mills. The rest of the army was issued ammunition and told to prepare for battle. They would march before dawn. Cornwallis had particular orders for Tavington.

"Colonel, I want your men fanned out in front of the army just after midnight. Proceed along the New Garden Road. Your job is to protect the van of the army, which will commence its march about an hour before daylight. Keep in contact with us: we must know the moment you locate the enemy. Do not remain engaged, but attempt to draw them back behind you."

Cornwallis was obviously concerned about the possibility of an ambush in the darkness, so Tavington and his men found themselves moving carefully down the road, and along the sides, which were fringed with strong fences. The road itself was not much more than a rough wagon path, but it was the best in the area. Gradually, around two in the morning, Tavington could discern hoofbeats in front of them. His eyes by now fully adjusted to the darkness, he could make out the faint reflections off metal helmets up ahead. Not his, certainly. _Possibly Harry Lee's Legion? Certainly colonials._ He gave a verbal message to Cornet Samuel Willett to deliver to the Lord General, and sent him on his way at once

Pursuing their prey up the road, they were met after a time by a large group of horsemen who turned on them and attacked. As much as he hated not to make the most of his first taste of combat after so long, he rallied the Dragoons and pulled back quickly, the colonials in eager pursuit. They headed away from the rising sun, and Tavington understood the second part of his General's plan. He led his Dragoons quickly off to the side of the road, leaving the Colonial cavalry to run into the upraised muskets of the Guards infantry. The light reflecting off the musket barrels confused both rebels and their horses. The cavalry retreated with loss, and a body of rebel infantry ran up and returned fire. There was a sharp exchange, which ended with the enemy melting away back down the road. 

Cornwallis had ridden up in the early light. "Press after them Colonel, but no more than a mile. Eliminate the stragglers you find, and return for further orders."

"My lord." Tavington gave him a brief nod, and charged down the road again, avoiding the dead and wounded. Some were theirs, and help was on the way to them in his wake. 

They found a pair of infantrymen, fleeing down the road. They had unwisely paused to gather up some belongings, and were easy pickings for the Dragoons. Tavington, in front, with sword fully extended before him, could feel the uneven flesh of his scars pulling a little along his ribs. He gave himself a moment to consider his body, decided the discomfort did not signify any danger, and sliced down into a rebel's back. He felt deep reassurance in knowing that he had not lost his skills during his convalescence. The rebel's companion half-turned in alarm and his face was shorn away by a Dragoon sergeant. It was fairly gruesome, and the sergeant caught Tavington's eye with a shrug and a brief chuckle.

Up ahead, the tree cover was denser around the road, and Tavington decided they had penetrated ahead of the army far enough. It was time to go back and see what the rest of the battle had to offer.

What followed was a long and frustrating day. Cornwallis had sent the Dragoons to the rear, explaining that they were his only reserve, and would not be used until the final act of the battle, unless dire emergency demanded it. It was a part Tavington hated to play, but he resigned himself to it. They heard endless fire, and a number of rumours were passed on to them—that both General O'Hara and Colonel Webster had been wounded, that the Lord General had fired grapeshot into a mixed group of British and Colonials to break up a murderous tangle, that the Colonials were falling back. 

Finally an order to charge the right and support the Hessians and the 1st Guards Battalion was relayed to Tavington. _Better late than never_, he thought. The cold was beginning to bother him, and clouds were forming and threatening rain. Charging down on the enemy, he saw that Harry Lee's men were already withdrawing. The remaining rebels, whom he perceived were Campbell's mountaineers, were retreating slowly, firing from tree to tree, but were easily overrun by the Dragoons. It had become a foxhunt, with the rebels fleeing into the brush, and some, like the unlucky fellow running before him, not quite making it.

Within another hundred feet, however, the horses began stumbling. The ground was too rough for them to manage, and rather than risk any precious horseflesh on an already routed enemy, Tavington rallied them and led them back. The skies opened, and they were caught in a torrential downpour.

__

We are in possession of the field, so we must be victorious, Tavington told himself, as he made his way to the Lord General. Cornwallis did not look like a man who had just won the day. Of course, none of them looked their best: plumes bedraggled and rain pouring from the corners of the tricorn hats as if they were downspouts. Cornwallis acknowledged him with a gruff, "Well done, Colonel," and Tavington was about to respond when unaccountably, there was blackness before him, and he felt himself sliding inexorably from his horse.

He awakened in his tent, still wet, and feeling uncomfortably cold. A lieutenant of Kinlock's troop, Hugh Davis, was sitting on a campstool nearby. Looking about, Tavington recognized Kinlock himself, talking quietly with Wilkins. Davis saw his eyes open.

"Captain Kinlock, Captain Wilkins!" he spoke up. "The Colonel is awake."

Tavington tried to sit up, but felt suddenly weak. He lay still, while his officers looked down at him, concerned.

Wilkins said, "Lie easy, Colonel. Smith's already had a look at you. He says it's just exhaustion."

Kinlock added sharply, "And maybe a bit of internal bleeding. So it's best you keep still, sir. There's nothing the surgeons can do for you, so you can doctor yourself with some sleep."

Tavington had to know what was going on. "But we took the field, did we not?"

"We took the field," agreed Kinlock darkly, "And there's plenty of our lads out there still lying in it."

"It's been hard to retrieve all the wounded in this bad weather, sir," Wilkins explained. He glumly added, "And there are a lot of wounded."

"Are the rumours true about O'Hara and Webster?"

"Both badly hurt, Colonel." Davis appeared with a blanket, and put it over Tavington.

Kinlock said shortly, "I saw General O'Hara myself. Wounded breast and thigh. But that was not what grieved him most."

"What, then?"

"His son Augustus, the artillery lieutenant, was killed early in the battle. O'Hara just got word of it."

"Poor fellow," said Tavington. He had always pictured any possible son of his own as a happy small boy. The idea of a child of his being killed in battle suddenly struck him, fully imagined, and horrible beyond enduring. He whispered again, "Poor fellow."

Within a few seconds, he was asleep.

Tavington was weak for the next few days. On the eighteenth, the wounded army moved to Bell's Mills. Tavington began to realise how lucky he had been even to have had shelter. Most of the army's tents and supplies were gone. The enemy wounded had been moved into the New Garden meeting house. Their own were loaded into the wagons that remained. The army would have to be resupplied through the coastal town of Wilmington, and was soon heading in that direction.

He hated riding in the wagon, but Cornwallis had insisted on it. Visiting him with considerable graciousness, Cornwallis had told him firmly that it was Tavington's duty to recover himself as quickly as possible. Valuable officers had been lost forever. The Lord General was plainly in distress about the state of Colonel Webster, a man he considered a personal friend. 

Tavington took the opportunity to ask Smith, when the surgeon came by to have a look at him, about Webster's wound.

"It's bad, sir." Smith looked unhappy. "Shot in the knee."

"But I was shot," Tavington objected, "and that healed well---"

"Colonel, his bones were shattered," Smith said wearily. "There's no way on God's earth to put him right. He's in terrible pain, and it looks like the wound is mortifying." He tried to give Tavington a smile. "At least we won the battle, sir. That's something."

"Yes," agreed Tavington, with dry sarcasm. He thought of ancient battles, and quoted Pyrrhus, "_Another such victory and we shall be_ _ruined_."

Author's notes: My sources for the battle of Guilford Courthouse are _Guilford Courthouse_ by John Hairr (unsympathetic to the British, especially Tarleton), Christopher Hibbert's _Red Coats and Rebels_, and Tarleton's own memoirs, the _Campaigns. _The New Garden Road is also referred to as the Great Salisbury Road in some sources.

The chapter title is from Henry IV, Part One.

Pyrrhus, King of Epirus, was a great enemy of the Romans, and won victories from them at too high a price, from which we get the term _Pyrrhic victory_. Such was the battle of Guilford Courthouse. General Greene never won a battle against the British in the Carolinas; but his tactics of losing bloodily to his enemies while causing them even greater harm, and then moving off to fight another day proved brilliantly successful throughout his campaign in the South. Truly a man who thought in a very original way.

Banastre Tarleton was wounded in the hand during the early morning New Garden skirmish. I saw no reason to beat up further on poor Will, who is already held together with baling wire and spit. A mild relapse is quite enough for him to need the period of convalescence Tarleton took in March through mid-April 1781.


	21. Chapter TwentyOne: Mrs Lacey's Cows

**__**

Disclaimer: I do not own the rights to The Patriot, nor to any farm animals.

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE: Mrs. Lacey's Cows 

Over the next three weeks the army made its way to the garrison at Wilmington. Stopping at Cross Creek, as in many other places, they were greeted by friendly and sympathetic Loyalists; but the people were either too poor, too afraid, or too unimpressed by the bedraggled state of the army to offer more than the shelter of their homes and moral support. It was rumoured that the rebel regulars were moving into South Carolina. Tavington knew that this was the time for hard decisions. He wondered if Lord Rawdon was right, and if they should turn back now to defend their winnings. He longed to return to Camden, fearing the worst if the little garrisons dotting the colony were exposed to the full strength of the Colonial forces.

He had been cheered to find that he had been mentioned favourably in the Lord General's dispatches to the government concerning the battle at Guilford Courthouse:

__

"Lieutenant-Colonel Tavington's good spirit and conduct in the management of his cavalry were conspicuous during the whole action."

Those wounded at Guilford Courthouse mended; or did not. Tavington, after considerable rest, was first able to return to light duty, and now, near the end of April, was almost completely restored to his fit condition prior to Cowpens. O'Hara was still mourning his son, but by the skill of the surgeons, and by reserves of strength and determination that Tavington had not previously perceived in him, was nearly ready to resume his command. Unhappily, Smith was proved right about Webster. The brave and gallant man suffered agonies on the road to Wilmington and finally died, to the grief of the army. 

Tavington was reacquainting himself with his soldiers. Duncan Monroe, an officer highly regarded by Bordon, was not a good fit with Captain James. He and Wilkins appeared to like one another, however, so Tavington rearranged his troops to best advantage. There were a few other such cases. David Ogilvie's troop had a merry band of troublemakers, so he broke up that little cabal, scattering the men among the Dragoons as a whole. 

Tavington's relations with the Lord General had remained guardedly friendly. Certainly, behaving as if he did not need Cornwallis' favour seemed to improve his commander's opinion of him. It was remarkable that Elizabeth, who had never met the Lord General, seemed to have penetrated his character in a way Tavington had not. He had been thinking about Elizabeth one afternoon, when a packet of letters, carried in an express to the Lord General from Rawdon, was delivered to him. He retired to his room as quickly as possible, and opened the letter with Elizabeth's handwriting first.

__

Camden, March 27th, 1781

_My dearest William,_

I pray you are well, as my sisters and I are. We miss you greatly and speak of you often. The Montgomerys, especially George, also wish to send greetings and respects to you.

Aunt Sarah Jane Minerva departed this life last week on the 18th. Though she had been failing for some time, her death was rather sudden. I had spoken to her when her breakfast was brought to her that morning. Later that afternoon, I went to consult her in her room, and found her lifeless in her sitting room chair where she always sat to look out the front window. As you might imagine, there was the usual mixture of emotions one feels at such an event, only (as Julia said) more so. The passing of such a remarkable individual leaves a void, even if she was not always perfectly agreeable in life. 

Her funeral was all she could have wished. It was well attended by people dressed in their handsomest mourning costumes. The minister properly limited his remarks to her attachment to her family, her learning and wisdom, and her generosity to the poor. The will was read, and contained a few surprises. I knew and approved of her plans for her house, but she had said nothing of her money. Amelia, Julia, and I were each bequeathed three thousand pounds. I have written a separate letter to Cousin James, informing him that he too was left money. A certain sum was left to the poor of the parish, and the rest was bequeathed severally to the Montgomery children, and in a way that would prevent a foolish or unscrupulous guardian from misappropriating it.

She mentioned you in her will, and wished you to have her Descartes, and the Micrographia_. I have set the books aside for you. She left me her pearls, as she had informed me she intended, and her copy of Father's _Flora and Fauna_, which I thought very kind of her. She also left me the Everleigh family Bible, on the grounds that no one else would care about it. Sadly, that is probably true. There were some other odds and ends—some keepsakes and some family miniatures. Amelia and Julia also received remembrances, but they wish to tell you themselves in their own letters. To my Uncle Ned, she left only disparaging remarks. I know nothing of the reasons for his estrangement from the family, and I shall certainly never know them now, but it was made clear that none of us should ever expect family feeling from him._

My dearest, you know best how I love you and long for your safe return. My life is a dreary routine without you. I endeavour to keep my mind occupied, which is indeed not difficult; since with my Aunt's death, most of the day to day running of the household has fallen to me. These cares, however, are no comfort. It is the thought of you that gives my life its sweetness.

Guard yourself well; for your life no longer belongs only to you, but also to me.

Your loving

Elizabeth

Tavington sat holding the letter for awhile. Every memory of Elizabeth came to him in a rush. He read it again, even admiring such trifles as her beautiful Italian script, and her elegance and good sense in expressing herself. He realised that he was behaving like all the silly lovers he had ever scorned, but he did not feel silly. He had found something lovely and lovable for himself, and he felt no shame in cherishing it.

The next letter, with a smaller and rounder handwriting, he guessed was from Amelia. Breaking the seal, he congratulated himself on his own cleverness.

Camden, March 27th, 1781 

Dearest Colonel Tavington,

Our Aunt Sarah Jane Minerva is no longer with us. I think she missed you, as we do. 

We are grateful to our aunt for her kind remembrances in her will. She not only remembered us with money, but also with some very thoughtful items. She left me some of her classical translations, some music, and a very beautiful Sevres tea set. She also left me some very nice fabric, with the admonition that I could not begin planning for my future too soon. Do you think it is wrong of me to wish for the war to be over?

You will be pleased to know that Mr. McKay continues to mend. His colour is better, and he is able to hold books and read by himself now. He was so grieved that he was unable to rejoin the Dragoons. He sends you his deepest respects.

He is very anxious that he will be found no longer fit for duty at all. There is so much to be done, and he feels he needs to be doing his part. We try to reassure him that he is already doing his part, in trying so hard to get well.

Remembering the happy time when you were here, I suggested reading Robinson Crusoe_ with him. He, too, has enjoyed it very much, and he made some very astute observations about the meaning of the book. Mr. McKay feels that it has much to say about the importance of self-reliance and personal resourcefulness in the face of adversity, and that one ought never to fall into dependence or other weaknesses. I was much struck by his insight._

I still help Lilabet with teaching the little Montgomerys. With all that has happened, she is very busy running the house. Cousin Charlotte means well, but she is very concerned about the baby, who is now creeping about the floor, and constantly putting herself in danger. Our cousin is so afraid something will happen to Caroline, that she will not even trust Zilphah alone with her. Zilphah watches little Frank, and I have begun teaching Sophie her letters and how to use her needle.

Our days seem very long without you. We hope you are well, and will continue so.

I remain, sir, your obedient servant,

Amelia Wilde

The last of the letters was sealed with a prodigious lump of wax. Its handwriting was the largest of all, and the ink had spattered pretty freely in its composition. Tavington smiled.

Camden, March 27th 

Dearest Colonel Tavington,

I am so happy to write to you. I hope this letter finds you well. I hope this letter finds you. We are all very well, except for Aunt Sarah Jane Minerva, who is dead. She mentioned you in her will, which I thought very nice, but I think she should have left you something better than her old books.

She left us each a lot of money. That is very agreeable. Not so agreeable is one of the things she left me. You know that picture of hers—the dog picture? She left it to me, because, she said, it was her duty to make me brave. I think I am already sufficiently brave. She also said she hoped I would make good use of it someday. I have no idea what she meant.

Mr. Pangbourne did not want to give our money to Lilabet, because he said we should have a real guardian, by which I suppose he means a man. Lilabet sent a message to Lord Rawdon, and then we got the money right away. Lord Rawdon must be a very nice man. I am sorry I did not get to meet him when he was at the house.

Aunt also left me her very nice silver toilette set. It had to be cleaned, of course, but it is very grand and ornamental. There is something very splendid about using a silver-backed brush on one's hair. One feels one's hair must look especially nice afterwards. She also left me three of her very pretty crystal perfume bottles. They are so very pretty, and I just sit and look at them. I like them so much. Lilabet says I am too young to wear the scents in them, though.

Lilabet is working very hard. There has been some trouble running the house lately. Melly and I think it might be because the slaves thought Aunt would free them in her will, and she didn't. She left them to the Montgomerys with the rest of the household goods. It is very hard to get anything done. Lilabet is not sure why Aunt did not free them, but she thinks it might be because Aunt thought Cousin Charlotte would need experienced help. She thinks Aunt might have freed Uncle Ganymede, at least, but perhaps that might have given someone the excuse to turn him out to starve. We would not do that, but Lilabet says that Cousin Charlotte might marry again someday, and her husband might. I can't imagine who would marry Cousin Charlotte. She has six children, and she is always sniveling. George is not as bad as he used to be, though. Now that you are back with the army, the two of us practice fencing. Lilabet doesn't like it. She says we'll put our eyes out.

Melly is giving all the lessons now, except for George's and mine. Lilabet still teaches us. Melly is not doing too badly, and it is good that she has something to do besides mope about that David McKay boy. They go to the hospital at least once a week, and then Melly mopes when she gets back. Lilabet mopes about you, too, I think, but not in such a silly way. She just looks sad and tired.

Please get the war finished. Then we shall have very good times. I often wonder where we shall live. Lilabet says there are all sorts of wonderful places to live, and we shall decide when we are with you again. I suppose it is certain that the one place we shall not be living is Arcadia. We got word that the Crawfords are living there now. Lilabet tried to act as if it did not bother her. She said they should all be very happy now, since they got Arcadia, which is what they wanted, and Charles Crawford did not have to marry her to get it. We heard Charles Crawford got married to someone else. I'll wager a million pounds she is ugly. I hope so, anyway.

I'm sorry this letter is so long. I know I said long letters were stupid. Please read it anyway. We love and miss you and we want you to be safe.

Your obedient servant,

Julia Wilde

There was much in the letters to consider. He smiled a little over Julia's enthusiasm, but was grateful that her naivete caused her to reveal to him things that Elizabeth and Amelia would not. He paused respectfully, thinking of Miss Everleigh, but Julia's letter only hardened his determination never to own slaves. That an intelligent woman would not even at her own death relieve the condition of those most dependent upon her, illustrated to him vividly the inherent stupidity and evil in slaveholding. Perhaps Elizabeth would understand someday, but at the present time she seemed to have a gap in her otherwise sensitive nature. No doubt she had never thought about the issue at all. As to the welcome bequests, he would someday have to express his gratitude to Rawdon for protecting the girls' rights.

Amelia's letter also made him smile. Her obvious infatuation with "the David McKay boy" and his "observations" breathed forth in every line. Innocent enough, but they were both very young: Amelia only fifteen, and McKay barely seventeen. If McKay recovered, they should be in no hurry to settle.

He treasured Elizabeth's letter, but it grieved him as well. He could picture all too clearly the sullen, resentful slaves, and Charlotte's helplessness and her lack of attention to anything not directly involving her children. While he understood that Elizabeth did not wish to worry him with circumstances he could do nothing about, neither did he wish to be kept in ignorance of all her troubles. He shrugged. As long as Julia wrote to him, there seemed little danger of that.

Cornwallis was resolved on his plan to attack the rebels in Virginia. Tavington had been sent ahead with the Dragoons to seize all the boats he could find along the Cape Fear River. The rest of the army would find them waiting and move north directly.

Once the crossing had been managed successfully, Tavington and his Dragoons pushed on ahead, always a day or two ahead of the body of the army. They met no resistance. Local Loyalists, who greeted them and acted as temporary guides through the region, told him that the terror of Tavington's name had kept many of the rebels as far from his path as possible. This information amused the Legion and Tavington himself, and he smirked a little at the advantage being the 'Butcher of the Carolinas' gave him.

Supplies were low, and the countryside almost barren after years of war. Tavington rounded up what he could. It was hard enough to keep his own men fed. Finding food for the some fifteen hundred men who comprised the balance of the army was nearly impossible.

As he ordered the men encamped one evening, he was approached by Sergeant Davies. What appeared to be an extra shadow behind the sergeant Tavington determined to be a scrawny, skulking civilian who, it seemed, wished to have a word with him. He gave Davies a nod, and the sergeant gestured the fellow forward. _A small farmer_, thought Tavington, _from the rough clothes, and a public nuisance_, he decided. The fellow was trying and failing to give Tavington a friendly smile. Instead, he looked at once frightened and self-satisfied.

He grinned a moment longer than Tavington's patience would hold. Seeing his colonel's irritation, Sergeant Davies gave the farmer a push. "Speak your piece to the Colonel, and don't waste his time!" Tavington looked at Davies with reproof. "Sorry, sir," muttered the sergeant, "the fellow said he wanted to talk to you about some beeves he's willing to give us."

"Not give," objected the farmer, horrified. "Sell! I hear the King's army pays for the animals it takes!" Tavington lifted an eyebrow, and stared the man down. 

Giving a hideously ingratiating smile, the farmer said, "I got me these beeves, and I figured I'd show you what a loyal King's man I am. I'm willing to make you a good price---"

"Where are they?" Tavington interrupted, wanting to get rid of this idiot. The man scuttled off, and returned immediately with a string of four animals. 

Placid, docile, and healthy they looked. They were also, quite obviously, milch cows.

Tavington was incredulous. "You want to sell your dairy cattle to us for beef?"

The fellow gaped at him, and then winked slyly at Tavington, as to a man who could see a good joke.

"Well," he drawled, "They're not exactly mine—"

"What do you mean?" asked Tavington, in his coldest, clipped voice. Davies looked at him uneasily, knowing what the frigid tone heralded. The 'loyal King's man,' not hearing the anger in Tavington's voice, continued to dig himself in deeper.

"There's this widow woman over yonder—name of Lacey—husband got hisself killed fighting for the rebels awhile back. I figured it'd serve her right to lose them cows. You and your brave soldiers get a meal, I get paid, and we'll teach that widow woman a lesson about marrying rebels instead of decent—"

Tavington hissed, "How dare you?" Davies discreetly backed away, and the civilian stood, jaw slack, beginning to understand that things were not turning out as he had planned.

Tavington raised his voice. "How dare you make me an accomplice to your petty spite? I know nothing of your loyalty or this woman's rebellion. Do you think you are making a favourable impression on me, robbing a widow of her livelihood?" The idea of this low creature imagining that he had anything in common with him made Tavington feel unclean. It was one thing to be feared for his ruthlessness, or his skill at arms, and quite another to be considered a common pilferer. Tavington's temper, so carefully controlled since he returned to the army, exploded.

Without bothering to turn the man over to his subordinates, Tavington unclipped his sword, unbuckled his sword belt, grabbed the terrified farmer by the back of his coat, and half-kicked him over to a nearby tree stump. Flinging the man over it, he proceeded to flog him thoroughly, satisfying, and brutally. With each blow of the belt the man howled. The Dragoons gathered around, entertained and approving, the closest bystanders relating the story to the latecomers.

Between blows, Tavington explained the fellow's good fortune to him. "Do you understand how lucky you are? I could just as easily have you hanged as a thief!" Thrashing the fellow seemed to relieve any number of frustrations and anxieties. He finished with three blows, the hardest yet, and stood panting over the man. _Interesting,_ he thought, _I really do feel much better_. Regaining his usual composure, he called out, "Sergeant Davies!"

"Sir!" The sergeant was nearby, and trying not to grin. Tavington looked him over coolly.

"Take this fellow and those cows, and find the woman he stole them from. Return the animals to her with the King's compliments." He brushed his uniform off, and added, "If he gives you any trouble, kill him."

"Yes, sir!"

Tavington studied the whimpering farmer thoughtfully. "If he looks like he'll give the woman any trouble, kill him."

"Yes, sir!"

Some local people had gathered back by the trees, and were enjoying the spectacle from a safe distance. Overhearing Tavington's commands, a woman ran forward and bobbed a curtsey.

"If you please, sir; I am Hannah Lacey. Bill Satterwhite stole the cows from me and we chased him all the way here." She was a rosy, middle-aged woman, and following in her wake were two young girls, wild as deer. Their skirts were kilted up for running, exposing bare feet and long brown legs. Their faces were hidden in the depths of their caps, and they glanced furtively at Tavington as he spoke to their mother.

Tavington pulled the farmer to his feet and spun him around to face his accuser. "_Is_ this not Mrs. Lacey, the owner of the cows?"

The man whined, "But she's a _rebel!_" 

Tavington gave the fellow a shove. "Get out of my sight." Turning to Mrs. Lacey, he said, "Madam, I understand those animals are your property. Do you require any assistance taking them home?"

Mrs. Lacey curtseyed again. "Oh, no, sir! My girls and I can lead them—no trouble at all!" She curtseyed yet again, and the girls followed suit, whispering to each other, as they watched him from the corners of their eyes. Tavington realised that they were looking him over with positively salacious curiosity. _Impudent little wenches!_

Captains Hovenden and Kinlock rode up, waiting for him to inspect the rest of the encampment. Both had witnessed the scene and were carefully sober, though with evident difficulty. _If they laugh, I shall take great pleasure in making their lives hell._

Mrs. Lacey said, "Thank you kindly, sir. It would have gone hard on us without our cows."

The taller of the girls looked at him under her lashes, "We are beholden to you, sir. If there is anything we can do to repay you—"

"Anything at all!" eagerly interrupted the shorter, more buxom girl.

Tavington gave them a slight smile and a polite, dismissive nod, trying not to gaze at the shapely legs of the tall girl, or her sister's heaving charms. Their mother began to pull them away, but the girls, disappointed, resisted. The little buxom one whispered loudly in her mother's ear, "—handsome! Can't we--------see again-----obliged---"

Tavington thought briefly about how long it had been since he had enjoyed a woman. He thought about the long brown legs and ample bosoms of the local nymphs. He thought about how his mother had taught him to accept the gratitude of inferiors graciously. He then thought, as he generally did every few minutes or so, about Elizabeth, curled against him on a rose brocade sofa, and resolutely used the memory to beat away the lure of the Lacey sirens. It took only a moment, and he was himself again.

Deciding he owed it to King and Country to show these yokels what a soldier ought to look like, he slipped his sword belt over his shoulder, and buckled it with unusual care. The silly girls were watching his every move. He very deliberately clipped the scabbard back on to the belt, and carefully adjusted the hang of his sword. 

Sauntering over to his horse with more than his usual swagger, he vaulted into the saddle. One girl cooed a sigh; the other squeaked excitedly. He spurred Aeolus into an easy canter, and escaped his admirers and temptation.

Author's notes: Among the legends of Tarleton in the Carolinas is the story of Mrs. Lacey's cows. The story only first appears in print in the 19th century, so it may simply be apocryphal. However, it is an amusing tale and shows a different side of the Butcher of the Carolinas. Years later, when meeting the thief in a public place and noticing a patch sewn on the back of his trousers, Mrs. Lacey asked him, "Bill Satterwhite, are those the pants Tarleton wore out when he whipped you with his sword belt?" The story is generally placed around the time Tarleton was riding to the relief of Ferguson, but the tone was not suitable in that chapter, so I have placed it here. The daughters are my embellishment. 

Many thanks to my kind reviewers: Zubeneschamali (you'll hear from me soon), SlytherinDragoon (you got the emerald ring. Yay!), Foodie, Anchovyeater, Redone, TaraRose, Ladymarytavington, Lintasare, Vivienne Tavington, Kate Lynn, CEA (don't let your teachers ruin history for you!), Arianna Malfoy, JaneyQ, and Kathrinetavington. Your praise and advice have made my efforts so much easier. There are several more chapters to go, but I am now seeing the light at the end of the tunnel. Is that a good thing or a bad thing? Maybe the journey is more important than the destination.


	22. Chapter TwentyTwo: Circe and the Swine

_Disclaimer: I do not own the rights to_ _The Patriot, but the Odyssey is the common heritage of all humankind. _   
  
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO: Circe and the Swine 

North of the Tarr River, the land was unknown. Tavington and the Dragoons were everywhere, commanding the inhabitants to surrender their foodstuffs for sale on pain of seizure. The supplies seemed more plentiful here. Tavington felt relieved that he and his men were at last getting enough to eat, but they were all in need of rest. 

An old countrywoman they came upon recommended they try Hawkforth House, the preeminent plantation in the area. On asking her for directions, the woman pointed west and said it was "on apiece," but not more than an hour.

They found a sunken lane, shaded with oaks. As the road turned, a tall, white house with an ivy-covered chimney came partially into view. Tavington was struck by a strange sense of having been there before, but shrugged it off as absurd. Coming closer, he saw it was a good-sized house with a pillared porch, garlanded with honeysuckle. To the west of the house was an orchard, white with blossoms.

Out on the veranda were two figures. Riding up to the house, Tavington saw they were a woman and a very small boy, who waved at them.

The woman, or rather, the lady of the house, was worth a second look. Tall, graceful, with red-gold hair uncovered, she was elegantly dressed in blue-flowered silk. She was looking gravely at Tavington; neither exactly friendly, nor openly hostile. The little fellow holding her hand was quite delighted at the sight of so many soldiers and horses, and was frank in his admiration.

"Mama, look!"

The handsome woman smiled down at the boy, and murmured something Tavington could not catch. The child quieted, still happily taking them all in. The woman looked Tavington in the eye, but said nothing.

Courteously removing his helmet, for she was indeed a lady, Tavington greeted her. "Good day to you, Madam. Is your husband at home?"

"No, he is not, sir." She said nothing else, but stood looking at him. Her eyes were quite wonderful: large and heavenly blue. The colour reminded him of something, but he could not quite remember what it was.

Handsome as she was, he had to ask, "Is he a rebel, Madam?"

She smiled slightly, "No, sir. He is in the army of his country, and fighting against invaders; therefore not a rebel."

Tavington held her eye a moment, and turned to Hovenden. "Captain, have the men make camp in the orchard."

Dismounting, he bowed to the lady. "William Tavington, Green Dragoons. You may have heard of me."

She curtseyed, unafraid, "Mary Sloan. Everyone's heard of you, Colonel."

"Madam, the service of His Majesty requires the temporary occupation of your property, and if it would not be too great an inconvenience, I will take up my quarters in your house."

She calmly led him inside. A cursory inspection showed that she could accommodate Tavington and all six of his captains. The slaves were quiet and efficient, and before he knew it, Tavington had been shown to a comfortable chamber and had the first opportunity in days to wash thoroughly. 

He removed his jacket, waistcoat, and boots, and lay down on the wide, soft bed. Almost instantly he was asleep.

  
*** 

It was strange to be back at Arcadia, and stranger still to be upstairs for the first time. Tavington lay resting on the bed, when Elizabeth slipped into the room. She smiled at him archly, in a way so familiar and dear to him. She was dressed in a thin white muslin robe.

"Are you happy to see me?" 

He smiled his answer, and was delighted when she unfastened the robe and let it fall to the floor. Coming closer, with an even naughtier smile, she stroked his hair and covered his face with light, teasing kisses. Enchanted by the sight of her revealed loveliness, he took her breasts gently in his hands, wondering at the softness of her skin.

"My dearest," she whispered reproachfully, "if you wanted to make love to me, you shouldn't have kept me waiting."

There was a knock at the door. "Dinner in ten minutes, Colonel sir," spoke the muffled voice of a slave.

Tavington lay alone in his room, throbbing with desire. It had seemed so real. His heart pounded, and he icily willed his body to leave him alone. He dressed quickly, smoothing down his hair; and he struggled to regain a cool demeanour. Briefly, he reminded himself to look at Elizabeth's letter again tonight. That would be something.

*** 

The dining parlour of Hawkforth House was a handsome room, dominated by its handsome mistress. Mrs. Sloan stood by the head of the table, and gestured gracefully for him to take the place of honour by her. She had changed into a gown of gleaming peach satin, which threw reflections onto her wonderfully transparent skin. Cut low as it was, he could see the delicate blue veins of her breasts. Looking up at his hostess, he realised that she had seen him staring at her. She gave a slight, cool smile.

"Please be seated, gentlemen," she said softly.

The dinner was ample, varied, and excellent. Plainly Mrs. Sloan took pride in her hospitality, and wished to show her enemies that she was above the vulgarity of rudeness to guests, however uninvited. She took particular care of Tavington, helping him to the best of everything, chatting of inconsequential things, and showing no fear. Tavington admired her nerve.

There was some very good wine with dinner, and plenty of it. Tavington partook moderately, but his captains were less reticent, and soon were glowing with good fellowship. Wilkins seemed about to burst into song, when a repressing glance from Tavington silenced him. Unabashed, he grinned happily at his colonel, lifting his wineglass in salute.

A servant brought by a platter of chicken. Mrs. Sloan leaned toward Tavington, making the most of her low-cut gown, and asked sweetly, "Which do you prefer, Colonel? The leg or the breast?"

He made no answer, and looked at her until she blushed and dropped her gaze. 

Carefully, she murmured, "I think I know," and served him from the breast. She must have seen his face tighten, for she then said, "I am most obliged to you Colonel, for allowing me to keep a roof over my head tonight."

"It would be foolish to burn down a house I myself wish to sleep in."

"And when you no longer require shelter, what then?"

"I generally feel some scruples about destroying homes that have afforded me hospitality."

She relaxed a little, breathing deeply. "Then I must see to it that my hospitality is all you desire."

It was late when the officers rose unsteadily to their feet. Mrs. Sloan had left them to the wine after dinner, and had vanished upstairs, presumably to see to her child, and to retire for the night. Tavington was loath to put a stop to the festivities. They had been riding so hard, for so long, with little enjoyment or relaxation. Still, the encampment must be inspected and determined to be secure. Kinlock and James appeared the closest to sober, so he told them to see to it. He left the dining parlour with them, to clear his head on the colonnaded veranda. The night air was sweet with honeysuckle.

Looking toward the orchard, he could hear the men singing around the campfires. They seemed louder than usual. Frowning, he decided to discover the cause for celebration himself. He could see Kinlock silhouetted in front of a fire, talking with a knot of dragoons. They seemed extraordinarily happy. 

Within a few more strides, he saw why. They seemed to have come upon a supply of spirits. The earthenware crocks they were pouring from—or frankly drinking from-- suggested a local home brew. He had tried it himself a few times, and knew it for powerful stuff.

Kinlock, restored to his usual sobriety, saw him approaching and said, "Compliments of Mrs. Sloan, it seems. She had an ox slaughtered and roasted for them and the spirits were distributed. Lieutenant Cameron and the other officers felt the men could do with a bit of fun."

"They've had quite enough fun, I think. Have the junior officers collect the spirits. See to the condition of the pickets. If they are drunk, I'll have them flogged." It occurred to him suddenly that his generous hostess might have something in mind other than simple hospitality_. If this has been a trick to make us ripe for an attack, I will kill her myself_

Most of the men were obedient enough to turn over the crocks_. _A few were dead drunk, and one or two fighting drunk. The sight of their Colonel's grim face was enough to frighten them into clumsy submission. The camp was secured, the junior officers issued strict instructions about accepting any more "hospitality" without clearance from their superiors.

Tavington returned to the house and looked into the dining parlour. Wilkins was in there alone, asleep in his chair, head thrown back and snoring like a trombone. 

Tavington shook his shoulder, "Captain!"

Wilkins emitted an unattractively loud snort, and his head lolled back and forth.

"Captain Wilkins! Wake up!"

Wilkins slowly opened his eyes, and beamed at Tavington. "Colonel! Isn't this a mighty fine party? A mighty fine…."

"The party's over, Captain. Get upstairs and get some sleep."

Wilkins eyes lost their focus. "Sleep…" His head dropped to the table with a thud, and he was promptly asleep again, drooling on the tablecloth.

Tavington stared at him in exasperation. He certainly was not going to carry Wilkins' bloody heavy bulk upstairs. Leaving his captain to sleep it off where he was, he left the dining parlour and went upstairs to his room.

She was waiting for him there. In a clinging silk night robe, hair unbound, lit only by the fire.

__

What is this? "I beg your pardon, Madam, I mistook this for my room."

She was warming something in a pan by the fire. "Of course it is your room, Colonel. I merely came by to see to your comforts." She rose from her knees and poured the contents of the pan into a silver goblet. "I thought you might like some mulled wine."

It smelled very pleasant. "You thought perhaps your guests had not had enough to drink already? Is it your plan to make fools of us?"

She offered him the goblet. "How could an unprotected woman make fools of men and soldiers? If you choose to make yourselves foolish, that is your own doing."

He took the goblet, and set it on the bed table. "You will not offer my men strong drink without asking my permission again."

"Whatever you say, Colonel. But they enjoyed it so much. I could hear them from the orchard."

"I shall make certain they do not disturb you thus again. Is that why you are wandering the house at this hour in your night robe?"

"I told you before. I am here to see to your comforts. You said you had scruples about destroying homes that had offered you hospitality. I am merely making certain that you consider my hospitality sufficient."

"Whatever you have heard of me, I am not in the habit of forcing myself on the women of the countryside."

She looked him over, and nodded. "Whatever you say, sir; but you can see how embarrassing it could be for me if I were mistaken about the nature of your demands."

"You _are_ mistaken, Madam. And I now bid you goodnight."

She raised her eyes to his, and they were a gambler's, making a last throw. He could see the pulse in her throat, beating wildly. She raised her hand to the lace around the neck of her gown, and traced lightly along the edge. He found himself unable to take his eyes off her fingertips as they brushed the tops of her breasts.

She whispered, "And I thought you were a real man."

He answered, his voice low. "Madam, I _am_ a real man; but I am not _your_ man. Where is the absent Mr. Sloan, anyway?"

"I told you. Away fighting for his country. I am not entirely certain where. I have not seen him this great while."

Tavington laughed shortly. "Is that what this is about? You are angry at your husband's absence and wish to punish him? I can hear you now: 'My dear, what could I do? You know the monster's reputation! I was at his mercy!'" He sneered at the idea, but his eyes did not leave her.

She came closer, and warily pressed her hand over his heart. "I _am _at your mercy."

His body, the traitor, responded at once. He did not push her away. "I see now. An adventure—that is what you hope for? A exciting experience for which you need feel no guilt, since, as you say, you are at my mercy." He came close, and whispered in her ear. "Perhaps I am not a merciful man."

  
*** 

Tavington awakened for the third time that night as she slipped out the door. A few seconds later, he heard another door close down the hall. Warm and utterly gratified, he thought contentedly of Elizabeth, and of how happy she would be someday. After all, he told himself, it was important to maintain certain skills in order to properly delight his future bride. He fell into a deep sleep once more, with no infidelity of mind, at least.

  
*** 

When he came down to breakfast in the morning, Wilkins was still sound asleep at the table. The slaves looked helplessly at Tavington. He strode over to the captain and shook him violently.

"Captain Wilkins! It is time for breakfast!"

Wilkins jumped straight up in his chair, clearly disoriented. He saw Tavington, and grinned sheepishly. "I reckon I slept here all night, sir."

"I _reckon_ you did. I couldn't wake you and let you stay there. I suggest some very strong tea."

Wilkins stretched and smiled at the breakfast being placed before him. "All the same, sir, it's pretty convenient. I didn't even have to come downstairs!" His smile changed to a look of discomfort. "Except—" He rose and quickly headed out the door. "Excuse me, Colonel."

Mrs. Sloan, exquisitely gowned, made a memorable entrance, and presided with great charm over the breakfast table. Some of the officers were feeling the previous night; some, like Wilkins, had shaken it off. The little boy, Charles, came downstairs, and wanted to make friends with the officers. He was quite a nice little fellow; Tavington guessed no more than three years old, and very interested in the horses. He trotted out after them, and Tavington called over Cornet Samuel Willett, and told him he was responsible for the little boy's safety. 

Willett was hardly more than a boy himself, and little Charles took to him readily. Noticing the boy's love for the horses, he put him on his own mount and led the boy around the front lawn. Mrs. Sloan came out on the veranda, and her son demanded she admire him.

"Mama! See me! I'm a soldier!"

"You look mighty handsome, darling!" his mother called back. Tavington found himself amused at the little boy's excitement.

"You don't mind him fraternising with the enemy, Mrs. Sloan?"

Her eyes stayed on her son. "He doesn't know that you are the enemy, Colonel. Do you intend to enlighten him?"

"Only if you make it necessary."

She gave him a bitter, contemptuous look. "I see. My home is still hostage to my compliant behaviour."

"You mistake me entirely, Madam. Whatever happened last night was with your consent and indeed at your urging, and has nothing to do with the current hostilities. No. I was referring your over-generous hospitality to my men, which could have rendered them unfit for duty and easy prey for a raiding party. It crossed my mind that that was your intent."

She was astonished. "You overrate me, sir. Do you imagine me some sort of clever female tactician, organising the local militia against the fearsome Butcher of the Carolinas? Give me credit for more sense than that."

"Then what _was_ your intent?—and don't make the excuse of hospitality. You wanted to see my men drunk."

Her lip curled. "Yes, I wanted to see them drunk and foolish—like all men. You all sicken me, with your rubbish about honour and liberty, or honour and loyalty. None of it can matter a particle to a woman. I see no one promising me a vote."

Tavington laughed, surprised, and then saw she was not in jest. "I presume some men have their uses."

The little boy was riding in front of Wilkins now. The captain had a knack with children that Tavington had noted before with his cousins. Wilkins was patiently showing Charles how to hold the reins. Tavington felt a curious pang, and remembered his imaginings about teaching his own son to ride someday.

Mrs. Sloan watched her son somberly. "Yes, you have your uses. You make charming pets when you are little. You are good for providing a living, and some of you," she cast a appraising eye over Tavington, "are good for a pleasant night's entertainment. For the rest, you are all pigs."

Tavington gave her an ironic bow, and returned to the Dragoons. He was going over to inspect Hovenden's men when he saw two Dragoons come riding into camp. He recognised them as Sergeant Patterson and his cousin Trooper Perry from Jacob James' troop. He changed direction and found Captain James at once.

"Those two--Patterson and Perry—where were they, and what were they doing?"

James was puzzled and called over the men's lieutenant, Michael Largin.

Largin was earnest in their praise. "They were out on patrol on their own, sir. They're very eager, and have a way of sniffing out hidden provisions. They've been doing this since the troop was formed."

Tavington frowned. It was all very well to show initiative, but this was allowing the men too much independence. "Just the two of them? No one else goes with them?"

"Well, sir, they're cousins, and they trust each other. They seem to work together well, and I thought it best to leave well enough alone."

"Perhaps," said Tavington, "but keep an eye on them. There's a fine line between patrolling and plundering. Remind your men that the Lord General has ordered that civilians are not to be robbed or otherwise harmed. Any confiscation must be done with official approval."

  
*** 

Both men and horses seemed to be enjoying their rest. Tavington sent out a few small patrols to confirm the security of the neighborhood. No one reported any signs of rebel activity. Mrs. Sloan, forbidden to give the men strong drink, plied them instead with rich and heavy food. The men sprawled out in the orchard in the afternoon, dozing while the apple blossoms drifted down and covered them. A few went fishing back in the marshes nearby, and brought their catches back to camp for supper. 

One such catch was extraordinarily large, for Tavington, reading on the veranda, saw two dragoons approaching, carrying something between them.

"Colonel, sir! We thought you'd better see this!"

With a wet thump, they set down their burden. Wrapped in canvas was a strongbox. At Tavington's command, one trooper smashed the lock off with the back of an axe. Inside was quite a treasure.

Hearing the commotion, Mrs. Sloan came running outside. She stared, dumbstruck, at the strongbox. Tavington was amused at her dismay. He examined the contents.

"A lady's jewelry box. Some nice pieces. I am certain the lady who owns them would be delighted to have them back. Mrs. Sloan, have you any idea who the owner could be?"

She was coldly furious. "You know they are mine." She came forward to retrieve the box, but Tavington held her back.

"I think I must make absolutely sure. What else is there? Some family silver. The monogram 'S.' Anyone you know?"

She bit out, "You find this entertaining."

"I find it absurd, Madam. You could have as easily left this in your sideboard. Or did you fear having to count the spoons upon our departure?"

"Yes," she snarled. "I shall certainly count the spoons upon your departure."

"Well," he smiled. "You can save yourself the trouble, by counting them now. Trooper, if you would be so good as to take the box into the dining parlour for Mrs. Sloan, she can get on with her housekeeping."

She cast him a look of pure hate and swept back into the house. Tavington wondered what the night would bring. 

  
*** 

She came to him again, without words and without courtesies. Tavington had never known a woman so desperate for novelty. It was delightful, in a rather frantic way, as they moved from position to position, barely long enough to savour the moment. Afterwards, lying shaking beside him, she still seemed in no mood for conversation. Tavington thought it just as well, since their conversations were invariably acrimonious; and he welcomed the delicious sleep that his release gave him. She was an odd, bitter woman ; but she was not his problem, and he would not trouble himself trying to understand her. As he fell asleep, he wondered if Mrs. Sloan had entertained other travelers thus.

  
*** 

The next day passed in dream-like calm. Tavington had determined that they would leave tomorrow morning, and was busy overseeing their provisioning. The men loafed, the horses grazed, and the pretty little boy continued his friendships with the officers and their splendid mounts. Tavington carefully avoided him. Considering his ambiguous relations with the boy's mother, he thought it improper to draw attention to them by noticing her son. Then too, teaching a little boy to ride was something to be kept back for his own child. He wanted no prior experience to sully the purity of that event.

Suddenly, he nearly laughed aloud, and admitted his own hypocrisy. He had had not the slightest scruple in practising his erotic skills on the boy's mother, and had in fact told himself he was really doing it for Elizabeth. He thought tenderly of his betrothed, safely back in Camden, and considered how very different she was from Mrs. Sloan. Elizabeth, at least, would never have to seek satisfaction with other men because her own husband was too unimaginative or too inconsiderate to care for her properly. 

*** 

That night, Mrs. Sloan clawed him a bit, until he rendered her helpless and vulnerable. It was amusing to draw the pleasure out of her against her will. He was gentle, even tender with her, thinking again of Elizabeth and how best to accustom her to these intimacies. When he saw the tracks of tears on Mrs. Sloan's cheeks, gleaming in the moonlight, he was satisfied that he had made her feel something. She turned away from him, silent and forbidding. He settled down to another excellent night's sleep, interrupted only once at her demand. She was gone, as usual, in the morning.

Dressed elegantly, she entertained them at breakfast with perfect courtesy, and gracefully accepted the thanks of the officers. Little Charles cried to see them go, and clung to Willett, imploring him to stay a little longer. His mother, capturing his hand and restraining him on the porch, gave Tavington a careful if aloof curtsey. He bowed his farewell to her and toyed with the idea of burning at least one barn, just to see her calm exterior give way. Still, she had a claim on his protection, and the message he had sent back to Cornwallis would ensure her another visit in a few days time. _What would the Lord General make of her?_

Their eyes met for one last, long glance; and he turned away, forgetting her. 

Author's Notes: There are a number of versions of the story of Tarleton's stay at the house of Mary Slocumbe. Nothing suggests that they had an affair. I have changed the name to avoid libeling a presumably innocent lady. I used the bones of the story to create an anti-Arcadia, to show how the same man could behave very differently in different circumstances and when treated differently. 

Some of you may object to Tavington's unfaithfulness to Elizabeth. I thought long and hard about this. I found I had to think like a—man—an 18th century man—an 18th century man and a soldier—an 18th century man and a soldier and not actually married—who hasn't had a woman in over 9 months—who is approached by a beautiful woman—a beautiful woman in his bedroom—an partially clothed woman in his bedroom—who insists on trying to play games with him. In such circumstances, I decided that Tavington would take advantage of his opportunity, and feel no guilt. 

I may someday post elsewhere the unexpurgated "Circe and the Swine." It is very naughty, and would do violence to my PG-13 rating. Then again, perhaps not. Tavington is a gentleman, and gentlemen don't tell.


	23. Chapter TwentyThree: Martial Law

_Disclaimer: IDNOTRTTP _   
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE: Martial Law 

By the second week of May, the Legion was far ahead of the rest of the army, looking for General Phillips. Sir Henry Clinton had sent the general and his forces down from New York to raid the Virginians and to fortify Portsmouth for the Royal Navy. Cornwallis was hoping for a rendezvous with them that would greatly reinforce his weakened troops.

Tavington, on horseback, looked through the trees at the little town of Halifax. His mission was to secure the town and its bridge over the Roanoke River. This was to be the army's gateway to Virginia, only a few miles away. With the Legion were Colonel Hamilton and his Royal North Carolina Regiment. Hamilton was from this area, and Tavington found the man's knowledge invaluable.

He could see the excitement in the town through his telescope. His men had come across small units of militia on the way here and had dispatched them summarily. Apparently, some survivors had made their way back to Halifax, and had alarmed the locals with the news that the Green Dragoons were upon them. No one was responding well to the news. Tavington smirked. There was a strong position about half a mile in front of the town that either the rebels had not noticed, or were too panicked to fortify.

Tavington drew his sword and ordered his men to prepare to charge. The idiot rebels were at last assembling, but on the wrong side of the bridge, in front of a deep ravine.

"Charge!" he shouted, and put his spurs to Aeolus. Responsive and swift, his horse flew toward the bridge. Around him he heard the shouts of his men, and before him, the appalled expressions of the enemy. Resistance was scattered and ineffectual. A rebel popped up in front of him, attempting to slam Aeolus with the butt of his musket. Tavington sliced down, and removed one the hands holding the weapon. He was gratified by the shriek fading away as he galloped on.

The town was soon overrun and made secure. The Royal North Carolinians and his own men routed out considerable supplies: spies were dispatched along the river to gain intelligence of General Phillips. He sent a rider back to Cornwallis, telling him of his success.

***

Within a day, a reply was back from the Lord General, along with some news: Tavington was to stay a few days in Halifax in order to better gain word of Phillips. Furthermore, Rawdon, back in South Carolina, had fought a successful battle with the rebel Greene near Camden. 

Successful or not, Tavington was worried. He had always thought this a risky venture, but now, knowing that the rebel army was back in South Carolina, he wondered if they had not made a fatal error. He did not think his fragile truce with the Lord General would hold if Tavington told him his opinion of this Virginia strategy. Still, he could wish someone would advise Cornwallis to turn back.

Elizabeth and the girls were in Camden. Anything could happen, and there would be no one to defend them this time.

***

Cornwallis and the army were soon at Halifax, and Tavington was ordered to cross the Roanoke to explore further into Virginia and find places for the army to cross the Meherrin and the Nottoway Rivers. They had set out, but within a few miles, word was passed on to Tavington that they were being followed. He galloped back to the rear; and looking through his telescope, was astonished to see Lord Cornwallis himself and six of his Dragoon guards, following them at a furious pace.

He ordered a halt and met the Lord General, who reined in his horse, looking grim. 

"Colonel," he said, "Dismount your men and have them form in rank. I need to make an inspection."

Tavington relayed the order, and as the men obeyed, he turned to his commander, "My lord, what has happened?"

"Some of the local country people have accused British soldiers of horrid crimes. I regret to say that they were certainly your men. The unhappy young women described the uniforms precisely." The older man's angry glance swept the ranks. "The family is coming to make an identification. I will not abide such acts. Surely your men know my orders, and indeed the regulations of the Army."

"I assure you, my lord, that your orders were clearly explained to all of the men. I hope that there has been some great mistake."

"I hope there has, Colonel," said Cornwallis acidly, "and I hope it was not British soldiers who made it."

After about a quarter of an hour, a farm wagon arrived, carrying some civilians: an old man and his wife, a middle-aged woman and two young girls. All appeared bruised and injured. One of the girls, a trembling little thing who could hardly be fifteen, had to be helped from the wagon by the others. The younger woman and the two girls were clearly frightened, but the old man and woman approached Cornwallis with less fear, and greeted him humbly.

Cornwallis walked over to them, and was courteous, if a little patronising. "My good people, thank you for coming. We shall soon settle this matter." He bent gently over the youngest girl, "My child, I have ordered the men with the uniform you described to stand here for you to see. Do not be frightened. No one can harm you in my presence."

Tavington eyed his men furiously. _How dare they do this to me? _This was just the thing to upset the Lord General and ruin their new understanding. He considered pointing out to the Lord General that it could all be a lie, but the bruises spoke against that, and also against the idea that it could have been consensual. The girls were respectably, if shabbily dressed. They were obviously not trollops. Who would do this? And why? _Everywhere we go, there are whores for pay, and even women for whom the charm of a red coat trumps all virtue_. 

No. If some of his men had done this, he would not have a syllable to say for them. Let them bear the punishment they deserved.

The old man was speaking to Cornwallis. "They're thieves, too, my lord. They beat me until Carrie here told them where we kept the money. They took eighteen shillings and sixpence, sir, all we had. They took all the cornbread and a ham, and my good pewter mug."

Cornwallis was patiently polite. "I had not forgotten, my good man. Now, if you and your family will have a look at the men, see if you can tell who it was. There were two of them, you say?"

The old woman said bitterly, "Two of them there were, my lord. And I'll know their dirty faces, don't you fear!" Putting her arm around the older of the girls, she walked along the ranks, looking fiercely into each man's face. The others, helping the younger girl, followed behind. The two young girls seemed too frightened to give more than give a quick glance now and then at the soldiers.

It took awhile, and the May sun was getting warm. Tavington reviewed his men silently, thinking over possible candidates. An unpleasant surmise was surfacing, and was confirmed all too soon.

The civilians were looking at James' troop now, when the old woman let out a cry like a bird of prey. The girl with her shrank back. The other family members hastened forward and Tavington saw, with humiliated anger, Sergeant Patterson trying to run.

"Hold him!" he rapped out, before Cornwallis could give the order. Within moments, Trooper Perry's panic had betrayed him as well, and both men were brought before the Lord General. The old couple crowded after the accused, and the woman took the girls by the hand and urged them forward.

The old woman was spitting in her rage. "There they are! There they are, the dirty villains! They ruined Sally and Liza Jane, and then they laughed! Dirty, dirty villains!"

Cornwallis wanted the men searched. Patterson had the mug. Tavington could have killed him personally, if only for such imbecility. The amount the old man had cited was found between the two dragoons, and returned to the family.

Finally the Lord General insisted that the two girls, as the most injured of the men's victims, identify them before him. Reluctantly, the girls approached. The older girl was weeping as she nodded at Perry. "He's the one, my lord." She took another look at him, full of misery, and turned away. The younger girl was with the old woman, and could not seem to find the courage to look at Patterson. She was not weeping, but white and shaking. The old woman finally took the girl's chin and forced her head up. Cornwallis plainly wanted to intervene, but restrained himself.

The girl stared at the sergeant, standing resigned before her. She suddenly choked, and vomited over his boots. Cornwallis said with a mixture of compassion and distaste, "I think that is sufficient. Take the child back to the wagon." The old woman hustled the girl away, wiping her mouth with her apron.

The two dragoons looked pleadingly at Tavington. He returned the look coldly, and went to confer with Cornwallis. The Lord General was dismissing the old man with a few quiet words. The family climbed into their wagon and headed slowly back towards Halifax. Tavington wondered uncomfortably if these were the men's first crimes, or the first reported. It was lucky for the girls that they had had family to care for them and bear witness for them. _What might have happened to a woman in a lonely cabin?_

"An ugly business, my lord," offered Tavington.

"Indeed." The Lord General was plainly unhappy about being involved in such sordid doings. "Have the men's hands bound and put them on their horses. I and my guard will take them back to Halifax." He paused and looked searchingly at Tavington. "You do not wish to ask for mercy on their behalf?"

"The wrongs of the case seem clear, my lord: but I must admit I regret losing two good fighters." 

Cornwallis did not seem particularly angry with Tavington. "Such things are bound to occur when small parties are sent out on patrol. Perhaps the others will learn caution from this example."

He mounted and rode off with his escort, the bound dragoons following along. Tavington, bitterly aggrieved, felt they should have been taken back on foot, so the Legion could have kept the horses. He planned an unpleasant quarter hour of verbal flaying for Captain James and the irresponsible Lieutenant Largin. They would soon know what it meant to neglect their duties and shame the Legion. He ordered the men to mount up, and overheard one young trooper asking Sergeant Davies, "What will they do to them?"

Sergeant Davies answered heavily, "They'll hang them, boy. They'll hang them."

***

Over the next few weeks, The Green Dragoons were scouting in eastern Virginia. They had finally met the British force sent to secure a port. General Philips, however, was dead, and the troops had devolved to the able command of the American Benedict Arnold. Combining Arnold's men with his own, Cornwallis had a rather more respectable army to work with, and was temporarily headquartered in Petersburg. From time to time they tracked down rebel militia units. The militia would not voluntarily face Tavington, so fearsome was his reputation, but they could be trapped, and they could be hunted down; and this Tavington did with a vengeance.

One such skirmish resulted in the capture of a packet of rebel letters. Tavington glanced through them and then got them back to Cornwallis at once. One of the letters was from Lafayette to Virginia's rebel governor Jefferson, and told of an upcoming meeting of the Virginia General Assembly, to be held in Charlottesville, near Jefferson's home. 

"I need hardly tell you, Colonel, what an opportunity this presents," Cornwallis said. He was elated, in a ponderous way, at the possibility of capturing some of the colony's most influential rebels. The Assembly had fled Richmond when Arnold had attacked it early in the year, and no doubt the rebels thought themselves safe at such a distance.

Cornwallis showed Tavington the map. "I need you to take your Dragoons and be in Charlottesville by the third of June. Break up the assembly, capture whom you can—obviously Jefferson would be the most desirable prize. The shock of your raid will spread a healthy respect for the Crown in a previously untouched part of the colony, and should create disarray in the rebel army."

It would mean covering over seventy miles in less than twenty-four hours, but Tavington knew his men could do it. "We'll be there, my lord." He was about to leave, but then paused to ask Cornwallis, "Have you received any news from Lord Rawdon in Camden?"

Cornwallis' good mood dissipated somewhat. "Lord Rawdon is no longer in Camden." Seeing the alarmed look on Tavington's face, he clarified, "Despite his victories over Greene, he thought it necessary to remove the army to Charlestown. We are still holding a number of the forts, but the garrison at Camden has been evacuated. I have had only a brief message from him; I am hoping for a more complete report any day."

Tavington nodded and left. It was all he could do to prevent himself from mounting his horse and heading south alone. Where was Elizabeth? Surely Rawdon would not desert the loyal people in Camden. Surely he would see Elizabeth and her sisters to safety. It all depended on the speed and urgency of the evacuation. If it had been a headlong flight, the fate of the noncombatants might be unknown. He trusted in Elizabeth's good sense, but there was always the possibility of very bad luck. Heavy-hearted, he sought out his subordinates and gave orders to make ready for the raid. He went to his quarters, and arranged what could be taken with him. Most of his possessions would have to stay with the small baggage train that remained.

***

The Green Dragoons had stopped only twice on the way, and had come upon a rebel supply convoy and destroyed it. Now Charlottesville lay before them. Charging the town, Tavington saw a number of riders fleeing in different directions, evidently to warn their fellow rebels. Tavington had given instructions to round up anyone who might be in the assembly—and that meant anyone white, male, and reasonably prosperous looking. Utterly taken by surprise, the assemblymen fled in disarray.

He saw Captain Kinlock with a group of dragoons holding some men, and rode over. 

"Good hunting, Captain?" One of the men Kinlock had captured was exceedingly angry, and Kinlock looked both pleased and perhaps a little embarrassed.

Kinlock replied, "Yes, Colonel: I have here not only a member of the Assembly, but a member of the Continental Congress. Colonel Tavington, allow me to present my cousin, Francis Kinlock."

Kinlock's rebel cousin was horrified at the name. He stared at Tavington with loathing. "Are you that William Tavington who killed women and children in South Carolina?"

Tavington looked him in the eye. "I am that William Tavington. I suggest you conduct yourself accordingly." He turned away, told Captain Hovenden to secure the town and supplies, and commanded Ogilvie and Wilkins to collect their troops and move on with him to Monticello, the home of Thomas Jefferson. An escaped slave was eager to guide them to the estate.

They were only ten minutes too late. Jefferson had been warned of their approach, and never a man of action, had provided for his liberty with a precipitate retreat. Tavington had come to the place planning to destroy it as an example. Once he actually rode up the hill to Monticello, however, he found himself feeling quite differently.

The house was very distinctive. Certainly not the largest he had ever seen: his own childhood home and Arcadia were easily far larger. Still, the domed, temple-like design, the fine setting on the hill, the attractive views about the countryside, unexpectedly charmed Tavington. 

He spoke to Ogilvie and Wilkins. "Nothing is to be damaged here. Tell the men." Dismounting, he decided to have a look at the place. Jefferson had possibly overlooked some papers. It would do no harm to make a search.

He began walking through the house, and Wilkins joined him a few moments later. Tavington was interested in the design of what was obviously Jefferson's own bedroom. He could get out of bed directly into two different areas. The library was small in size, but stocked with some wonderful books. A violin and a music stand were there as well. _A musician_, he thought. _Elizabeth would probably like him._ Wilkins was frankly puzzled by such an idiosyncratic house, but Tavington found it thought provoking.

It was, first of all, designed for one man's comfort by that same man. Other people might live in the house, but the house was clearly Jefferson's. The splendid gardens, which he could see from the window, were well laid out and extensive. He would look at them before he left. There were some unique features there. And then, as they walked around, Tavington discovered the clever devising of the offices and storerooms.

"I never saw the like!" exclaimed Wilkins. "He's got them all hidden away! We walked right over it and never guessed the smokehouse was right under our feet!"

Tavington nodded, too intrigued for conversation. The long paved walks did hide the offices and storerooms, some of which were partially underground. It was an innovative idea, and kept the house and grounds uncluttered by the scattered outbuildings one usually saw around a plantation. 

"You know, Wilkins," he finally said, "it's a pity this fellow Jefferson hasn't kept to his gardening and his inventing. He's wasted on politics, and he's clearly no soldier, but as an architect and the creator of an estate he's quite original."

"I reckon," replied Wilkins doubtfully. "He's got some strange notions, that's for sure."

Tavington smiled indulgently and took a quick look at the garden before he left. He paused before some rose beds, now just coming into bloom. How he wished Elizabeth were here to see this. The place was a horticulturist's dream. He knew, with regret, that they would never have a garden like this. Either they would need an army of slaves, as Jefferson had, or a large staff of gardeners, which would never be within Tavington's means. Still, it was worth a look, and worth remembering. A patrol was left to guard the house. 

***

Back in Charlottesville, there was much to congratulate themselves about. The Legion had found a great quantity of rebel supplies, including over a thousand muskets, four hundred barrels of gunpowder, and vast amounts of tobacco. All of this was destroyed, since they had no way to take any of it back with them. Some of their other discoveries were even more gratifying.

It was Lieutenant Monroe who had found the men, thin and ragged, in the warehouse where they had been locked up and made to work as slave labourers for years. These British soldiers were survivors of the defeat at Saratoga, back in 1777, who, in defiance of the terms of the surrender of Burgoyne's army, had been carried off into the backwoods with no hope of escape. Twenty of them were found, and Tavington wished he could spend longer in the town, tearing every building apart, looking for more. At least these men would be taken back with them. He made a point of allowing the captives the pleasure of burning down the buildings where they had been forced to work.

***

By June 25th, the Legion had rejoined Cornwallis and the main army, which had headed to Williamsburg, where the healthier climate might keep them from the sickness they had been prone to in Petersburg. On arriving, Tavington reported his largely successful activities. Cornwallis was pleased.

"And I have news for you as well, Colonel," said his commander, in an expansive mood. "First, I have the pleasure of telling you that your colonelcy has been approved. You are officially a lieutenant colonel of the 79th regiment of the regular establishment." He handed Tavington the official recommendation.

"Thank you, my lord!" Tavington was surprised and pleased. As the commander of a provincial regiment, he had the temporary rank of lieutenant colonel, but the regular rank of major in the 17th Light Dragoons. His pay, his benefits, even his half-pay when he went inactive would have been based on his majority. He glanced down at the document and saw the words, _He is indefatigably laborious and active, cool and intrepid in action, discerns by intuition, seizes with rapidity, and improves with skill the short but favourable_ _decisive moments of victory_. Having his colonelcy approved was not just an honour: it would be worth a great deal of money in the long run. In lieu of an actual land grant, it was a wonderful reward. He would still command the Legion, but at a far higher rate of pay. Cornwallis had, it appeared, more to tell him.

"Though Lord Rawdon has indeed withdrawn to Charlestown, he is doing well suppressing the rebel activity in his area, and sent me not only a detailed report, but some private correspondence, to be delivered to you." He gave Tavington a packet of letters with a benevolent half-smile. "No doubt you are anxious to read them. Report to me tomorrow at this time."

"My lord." Bowing, Tavington hastened away with the precious letters. Not even waiting to return to the inn where he was staying, he found a conveniently shady tree, and sat down under it. The first word he read relieved his worst fears.

__

Charlestown, June 3, 1781 

My dearest William, 

Undoubtedly you know that Lord Rawdon found it prudent to withdraw from Camden. We, too, considered leaving with the Army the wisest course. We packed our wagon once more and joined the evacuation May 10th. Charlotte and the children wept to see us go, but of course it is for the best. Her brother and his wife have moved into the house with them, and as his Whig credentials are impeccable, they should have no difficulties. Before I left, I found a governess for the girls, and an elderly parson has agreed to come and tutor George. Though he has made good progress in his studies, it is plain that he would do best studying with a man. He pointedly asked me to convey his respects to you.

Lord Rawdon was very kind, and amidst all his other concerns, he took thought of us and allowed Mr. McKay to travel as our escort. The poor boy has not yet regained his full strength, but he is well enough to return to light duty, and has been transferred to the Legion infantry, which will be at Charlestown now. Amelia very much enjoyed his company on the journey, and he was very gallant and attentive.

We were somewhat at a loss as to where we should stay. The town is overflowing with refugees. We have some distant cousins in Charlestown, but they had no room to spare for us at all. We had another offer, which I considered improper to accept. Finally, I thought of my old schoolmistress, Mrs. Rutherford. She still has her school, but due to the war, very few of the students are boarders. She was able to accommodate us with two rooms, one for me, and one for Amelia and Julia. If you direct your letters to Mrs. Rutherford's school on Church Street, they are certain to reach us.

Mrs. Rutherford is as kind and clever as ever she was, and I am very pleased that my sisters should have the opportunity of attending school and meeting other girls. I realize, dearest, that your schooldays were not the most agreeable of your life, but this school is very different, and the girls seem very happy in general.

The school year is almost over, and most of the girls will be home for the summer, but some classes will continue for the boarders.

My dearest, please do not be vexed with me. Mrs. Rutherford has been so very kind in letting me stay here that I could not simply repay her with money. This is, after all, not a common lodgings house. She asked me to take some of the classes, and I agreed. It seems very strange to be teaching girls who are in no way related to me. They are very well behaved, however, and it is not distasteful. 

We have had one piece of very good news. Before we left Camden, a letter finally made its way to me from our father's friend Judge Henderson. He has gone through many difficulties with the Virginia and North Carolina legislatures about his treaty with the Indians. Most of the land he bought was confiscated by Virginia. However, in restitution, they allowed him to keep 100,000 acres in the western part of the territory. He does not anticipate settling there himself, as he has dealings with the Indians further south to occupy him. Nonetheless, he has said that ten thousand of the acres allotted to him are certainly ours, and that we can claim them when we like. His letter was so very kind, and contained so many fond remembrances of his adventures with Father, that I could not but shed tears. It is comforting to know that even in these times, there are those who can rise about political differences and show themselves truly honourable. 

I cannot express how I long to be with you. I am indeed yours, my dearest, and this separation is a grievous thing. I think of the past, when we were together, and of the future, when we shall be together. The present is too painful to dwell upon.

Your loving

Elizabeth

Tavington felt a mixture of joy at her safety and unhappiness at her predicament. Since they had first met, his poor Elizabeth's circumstances had been in constant decline: first leaving her own beautiful home to be treated as a poor relation by the intriguing but difficult Miss Everleigh, and now, to be put in the position of having to teach in a school! Somehow, he would make it up to her someday. Though they might never be wealthy, they would surely have their own home, and she would be in a situation more fitting for a lady of her quality. He paused thoughtfully over her paragraph about the Kentucky land grant. Unless Britain won the war, that grant would not be worth the paper it was written upon; Henderson might honour it, but Tavington and Elizabeth would be anathema to all their neighbors. He had indeed made a name for himself in this war, as he had hoped, but he had done it so thoroughly that his name might preclude ever living in the colonies in peace.

Unwillingly, he had begun to see that the impossibility of Britain losing this conflict was becoming more and more possible. The immense cost of the war, its unpopularity at home—and now the involvement of the French and the Spanish—all pointed to the very good chance that the Crown might wash its hands of the thirteen colonies. If the troops were withdrawn, what would become of loyal people like Elizabeth and her sisters—or like his own men, who had sacrificed everything to serve the King?

Pushing these thoughts aside for the moment, he opened the next letter.

__

Charlestown, June 3, 1781 

Dearest Colonel Tavington,

I hope this letter finds you well, as we are. We are all in Charlestown now and staying at Lilabet's old school. It is very pleasant, but different. I learn French with five other girls! Being in such strange surroundings tends to take one's mind off all that is going on about us, but our good friend Mr. McKay calls frequently, and keeps us apprised of the events in the wide world.

Mr. McKay thinks it was a mistake for Lord Cornwallis to take the army north, as we are rather hard-pressed here. We all wish you were not so far away. Do be very careful with yourself, as far as your honour allows. Mr. McKay thinks so very highly of you, and he asked me to convey his respects.

We are comfortable enough, but it is too bad we could not accept the offer from Lilabet's old friend. She thought it imprudent. The whole family is very pleasant, however, and we have been to dine with them. We often think about how hard it must be for you, and we wish we could ease your burden.

I am reading the Odyssey now, and enjoy the adventures of Ulysses very much. One hardly thinks of his suffering, the story is so interesting. I was discussing Penelope and her suitors with Lilabet. I was wondering if perhaps Penelope were not at fault in some way for attracting them and not sending them away at once, but Lilabet made me see that sometimes men one does not want are not so easily gotten rid of. Sometimes men think they know best and pursue a woman, believing that they are what she needs. It is something to reflect upon.

I remain, sir, your obedient servant,

Amelia Wilde

Sweet Amelia! Still quoting McKay's opinions. At least the boy was on the mend, and Tavington could feel less guilty on his account. The brief mention of the offer from an old friend made him wonder. Why was it imprudent to stay with friends, and how could teaching in a school be preferable?

He felt somewhat uneasy. Amelia often expressed herself in literary metaphors. What was she trying to tell him? He would write to them all. First, though, he must read the last letter.

__

Charlestown, June 3, 1781 

Dearest Colonel Tavington,

We are all very well, and we hope you are too. We are at Lilabet's old school, and Melly and I are sharing a room. I am not supposed to call her Melly anymore, but Amelia, but I keep forgetting. She thinks Amelia is more dignified. 

We had a quite an adventure in the wagon going to Charlestown. The Montgomerys were sorry to see us go, but Lilabet and Melly and I all agreed that we needed to be with the army. Cousin Charlotte's brother, Mr. Ogle, and his wife were moving into our old room. After we met them, I was especially glad to go. I don't think they are at all nice. Lilabet agrees that they will bully Cousin Charlotte, but she says the Montgomerys will be safe because Mr. Ogle has friends among the rebels. He and that wife of his wanted to go through the things we were packing in the wagon to make sure we weren't taking anything that didn't belong to us. That is not what they said, but even I could see what they meant. Lilabet was very short with them, and said if they had complaints, they could take them up with Lord Rawdon.

So we packed up the wagon again and were off. Lord Rawdon made sure we were safe. He has a big nose, and is very long and bony, but he said very nice things about you, so he is all right. He asked me to convey his respects to you. He has good manners. He bowed nicely to me, and did not pat me on the head or wink at me like a certain admirer of Mell---Amelia's. That Mr. McKay boy is underfoot all the time.

The school is all right, and Mrs. Rutherford is very nice. I can see why Lilabet likes her so much. They talk about books and music all day long. Once they get going they never stop. Lilabet is teaching some of the classes for her. The other girls are all right too, except for being silly about tight-lacing. When Mrs. Rutherford catches them at it, she makes them loosen their corset strings and

I suppose I should not be writing about corsets, so I will tell you about the DeLanceys. They came to see us at Mrs. Rutherford's very soon after we arrived. There is old Mrs. DeLancey, and her son the judge, and Mrs. Pinckney, who is the judge's sister and an old schoolmate of Lilabet's. I could see that Mrs. Pinckney felt sorry for Lilabet, because of Arcadia and teaching in a school. I suppose she means well, but I don't think it was good manners to be so pitying. Mrs. DeLancey is very nice and very motherly. She looked at my sewing and said nice things about it without being silly or simpering. She thinks a lot of Lilabet, and was so sad that Lilabet would not agree for us to come stay in her house, but she understood when Lilabet told her it would hurt Mrs. Rutherford's feelings.

I do not like Judge DeLancey at all. He looks at Lilabet like he would like to eat her up. Mel----Amelia told me that they used to be engaged a long time ago before I was born. He married someone else, but she died a few years ago, and Amelia thinks that now he is pining for Lilabet. I can see why Lilabet would not think it right to stay with him, when she has promised to marry you. It would be mean and teasing to the judge. We did have dinner with them, and they have a very nice, big house. Mrs. DeLancey showed us all over it, and she showed M---Amelia and me the rooms that would be ours if we ever stayed there. They were very pretty, but no prettier than our old rooms at Arcadia. I can understand Mrs. DeLancey and Mrs. Pinckney being fond of Lilabet and wanting her to belong to them, but it cannot be, and they should understand that.

I wish we could have gone north with you. I miss you so much. I wouldn't mind sleeping on the ground again. You know I can sleep on the ground. You were there. Lilabet says you and the Dragoons are having to ride very hard all the time. I can ride as hard as anybody. I still hate the rebels for stealing my pony.

I must close because Lilabet says the letters must go now if they are to be on the ship to Wilmington. I send every wish for your continued good health and safety.

Your obedient servant,

Julia Wilde

Thank God for Julia's indiscretion. It struck Tavington as never before that he might have made a serious error in judgement by not marrying Elizabeth when he had the chance. Had she been his wife, she could not have been prey for that pompous ass DeLancey. Tavington was painfully aware of the man's eligibility, compared with himself: his "nice, big house," the promised comforts for her sisters dangled before Elizabeth's eyes, and the most dangerous and subtle temptation for a tender-hearted woman like his betrothed---an affectionate mother, who already treated Elizabeth as a beloved daughter.

Yes, he would go to his quarters and write to Elizabeth immediately. He would assure her of his love and devotion, and talk of the enchanting possibilities to come. Like Miss Everleigh's ring, it was a slender thread to bind another with, but it was all he had.

---

Author's notes: The story of Cornwallis himself riding after the British Legion to arrest a pair of Dragoons for rape and robbery is true. And yes, they were hanged. Hanging was the standard punishment for rape and robbery of civilians in the British Army.

Tarleton's raid on Charlottesville is only lightly fictionalised. I couldn't have made up a story like the one about David Kinlock capturing his own cousin. Nor would I have made up a story like the rescue of the members of the lost army of Saratoga. As to Monticello, Jefferson went on record expressing his gratitude to Tarleton for preserving his beloved home. The remark about Jefferson's precipitate retreat is a direct quote from Tarleton's memoirs, _The Campaigns._

Ten points to anyone who identifies the source of the question Francis Kinlock asked Tavington.


	24. Chapter TwentyFour: A March Upcountry, a...

_.toirtaP ehT ot sthgir eht nwo ton od I :remialcsiD _ CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR: A March Upcountry, and a Black Horse 

Charles, Earl Cornwallis, was not a happy man. Rather, he looked distinctly displeased as he addressed the meeting of officers he had called. Tavington cared little for his commander's unhappy looks, since he himself was not the cause of them on this occasion. It was soon revealed that the object of the Lord General's displeasure was his nominal commander, Sir Henry Clinton. 

"It appears that Sir Henry has received intelligence that the Continentals are massing for a major assault on the city of New York. Sir Henry will be sending ships to bring us to his aid." Cornwallis' unhappiness was understandable. Instead of receiving reinforcements or assistance that would ensure their own campaign's success, they were to be shipped off again, and returned to the north, their work incomplete. Thinking about it, Tavington began to share his commander's discontent. It had all begun to seem like a mad chess game, with pieces scattered whimsically about a misshapen board. When would it end? When could he see Elizabeth again?

The ships would not arrive for at least a month. In that time, Cornwallis was still to scout out a good naval base, and their raids were to continue. Tavington decided that he would not write to Elizabeth about his departure for the north until it had actually taken place. The situation could change, and they might find themselves ordered to Charlestown, instead. Tavington smiled at the thought.

O'Hara passed by, and saw the smile on Tavington's face. He had been talking about Lafayette to Colonel Abercrombie, and thought Tavington had overheard. He asked, "Ready to have a go at the damned Froggie, Colonel? He's still in the neighborhood. With any luck, we'll have a chance to come to grips with him before we're all shipped out." 

"The sooner the better, General."

O'Hara had been a quieter man since the death of his son, and their shared troubles made him less interested in baiting Tavington. The officers in Cornwallis' small army were all getting on rather well at the present time. Unfortunately, the great rivalry between their own commander and Sir Henry Clinton overshadowed all. _It's a shame the army has to be so political, _Tavington thought_. When the war is over, I shall certainly not miss these petty jealousies and the endless mischief they cause._

  


They received word that Lafayette was nearby--at Tyree's plantation, in fact--and would be celebrating the rebels' Fourth of July in grand style. A number of the escaped slaves who had joined them were effective spies, and had gone out to observe Lafayette's forces and the troops under Anthony Wayne.

Cornwallis wanted to move the army across the James River, and was anticipating an attack: it would take two days to get the army across the wide passage, and the rebels would have to be complete fools not to make an attempt on them at such a time. He had called in the regimental commanders to reveal a plan he had devised to trick and repulse Lafayette and Wayne. Tavington and the British Legion were essential to his strategy.

"You are the bait, Colonel," his commander coolly declared. He then showed Tavington a map of the area around Green Springs Farm. Tavington had to admit that the Lord General had found a strong position. The Green Dragoons were to make the rebels believe that they were the rearguard protecting the baggage; when in fact, the baggage would already have crossed the river. Meanwhile, they would contest every step, in a fighting retreat, luring the rebels over the causeway crossing the marsh, to the troops hidden in the woods just in front of the river. 

Tavington proposed an embellishment. "Why don't we send out some men, posing as deserters, to give the rebels false intelligence?" The Lord General was interested. "I have a man or two who could approach the rebels, tell them that only the British Legion is between them and the baggage, and convince them to charge in without scouting. Once we are engaged, it will not occur to them to doubt the men's story."

"Have them ready to set out by dawn, Colonel," Cornwallis agreed. The meeting broke up, and Tavington left to find his spies. He took thought of Fergus McDonald, the dragoon who was always ready for the most desperate deeds; and with him he decided to send one of the escaped slaves who had been with them for awhile, the one named Strephon. They were both clever fellows, and would make a good story of it, while being resourceful enough to get back alive to the British. 

McDonald, when told of the plan, was clearly excited; and then, thinking what he could make of it, hinted that some solid evidence of his Colonel's confidence would make the task easier. Tavington paid him three guineas. When Strephon, the former slave, was brought in, he too was eager for the mission, but seemed to want some other kind of reward.

"If I does this, Colonel, then you'll see I'm a man you can trust. Then maybe you might have other things I could do."

Tavington wondered what he was getting at. "Other things?"

"Well, Colonel," said the black man, shaking his head, "It seems to me that you could use some looking after." As Tavington's brows rose at this observation, Strephon explained. "You need a regular servant, Colonel, to take care of you."

"You are asking to be my valet?" Tavington was amused.

"Yes, sir. Gentlemen always take a lot of looking after, and I figure that won't change if the war ends or not. I did this kind of work before, sir, for my old master, and I guess I can do it for you."

"I would pay you, of course; but now that you're free, wouldn't you prefer some other kind of work?"

"A man's got to eat, sir. Taking care of gentlemen is what I know how to do. I always worked in the house 'til I ran away. I can take care of your things, sir, and shave you, and I can sew some. I can cook a little, and I know how to serve dinner and how to polish up silver real nice. And I figure it's better than digging ditches for the army, which is what they got me doing now."

Tavington laughed shortly. "You may not like me any better than your old master, Strephon."

The freedman gave a bitter half-smile. "Colonel, there is no way you could ever treat me as bad as my old master. 'Cause if you did, I would just leave."

  
  


McDonald and Strephon had set out that morning to find the rebels. Tavington and the Legion were not far from the causeway when, early in the afternoon, they saw Wayne's advance guard approaching. They were moving fast, and from that first moment, Tavington was ready to swear that the trick had worked.

It was a long, hot, grim business. Tavington had set out advance pickets, which were slowly driven back. The dragoons funneled carefully towards the causeway, wreaking all the havoc they could. Tavington knew the full worth of John Wilde's fine pistols that day. It seemed he could not miss. By three o'clock, their slow retreat had them headed toward the waiting troops. The marsh surrounding the causeway prevented the enemy from making any flanking movement. A few had tried it, and had been miserably caught in the muck, leaving them easy targets for a man with an accurate pistol. Tavington smirked, briefly anticipating the meticulous cleaning he would bestow on these beauties that night. 

They were being pressed harder now. Lafayette must have brought up more troops. Once off the long causeway, Tavington ordered the men to pull back quickly to the river. The rebels, believing their enemy trapped, raced after them, baying like hunting hounds. As the rebels arrived on firmer ground, they formed in line, and advanced. The British had left one of the cannons by the river crossing, as if abandoned. Some of the Continentals were sent on ahead of the advancing line, to capture it.

This was the signal for the British to emerge from the dense woods, close ranks in front of the Dragoons, and advance on the enemy. Shocked, the rebels faltered. Anthony Wayne, their commander, rallied them at once; and Tavington could hear volleys being exchanged. For the Dragoons waiting behind the infantry, the course of the battle became a matter of guesswork; for the increasingly dense gunsmoke prevented them from seeing what was happening. The afternoon was nearly over, and Tavington was longing to rejoin the fight. The Legion's casualties in the skirmish had been minor. The smoke drifted back over the river like fog. Across the wide James, he could see some of the Queen's Rangers, guarding the baggage. After a while, they too were invisible.

Time passed, and Tavington grew impatient. He could see from the movement of the troops in front of them, that they must be pushing the Continentals back. The light was fading: soon it would be twilight. The movement before him quickened. The rebels must be retreating. Tavington rode over to find Cornwallis. The Lord General was grimly pleased at the success of his trap, but denied Tavington's request to pursue over the causeway.

"No, Colonel, I cannot risk any more lives. You and your men are earmarked by Sir Henry to reinforce his troops in New York. Defending ourselves is one thing, but engaging Lafayette further in a major battle could be interpreted by Sir Henry as insubordination on my part. Besides, it grows too dark for a safe pursuit. In the morning, you will take the Dragoons out to scout the enemy's positions, while we ferry the army over."

"But, my lord, we have them! We could---"

"That is an order, Colonel," said Cornwallis, firmly. Tavington gave him a nod, and withdrew. Frustrated, he rode back to the Legion.

Captain Hovenden and his troop were closest, looking eager. Tavington caught his eye, and shook his head at him. Disappointed, Hovenden muttered something to his brother, Lieutenant Moore Hovenden, beside him. Tavington rode on, and passed the word to the rest of his officers. They largely felt as he did: that they were missing a splendid opportunity to savage the defeated rebels. Nonetheless, there was nothing for it. They must encamp, and wait for daylight.

  
  


They ate the tasteless rations, sitting glumly around the fires that night. The other regiments' spirits were high, in celebration of their resounding little victory. The Dragoons, however, despite their successful long skirmish in the afternoon, felt that fate had somehow passed them by. Tavington hoped they did not someday regret the Lord General's caution.

Two figures were making their way from fire to fire. Tavington could hear laughter at each stop, as they approached him. He soon saw that McDonald and Strephon had indeed made a safe escape from the rebels, and were now regaling the others with the story of their adventure. 

They saw him, and came forward. McDonald was grinning; Strephon was quietly bursting with pride. They saluted, and Tavington gave them a nod. "Well done, both of you. Whatever you told them answered our need. I am glad to see you alive."

McDonald grinned even more widely, showing the gaps of missing teeth. "Well, Colonel, I had just come into some money, and was bound I'd live to spend it." Tavington laughed and dismissed him, then turned to Strephon.

"Well done, Strephon. I seem to have found myself a valet."

"Thank you, Colonel. You won't ever be sorry. I could start right away, and clean up your weapons and such—"

"Strephon, one thing you must always remember: I take care of my own weapons."

"Well, then, sir, your boots don't look too---"

"Oh, very well," said Tavington indulgently. He sat on a nearby log with his pistols and a rag for cleaning them. Strephon squatted down, and set to polishing his boots. Tavington began to think having a servant of his own might be a very good thing. Strephon was clever, brave, and not overly talkative. Tavington had had his share of Dragoon orderlies-- private soldiers assigned to him as servants--but they were first and foremost, soldiers, and they often left much to be desired as valets. Whereas, he noticed, Strephon was doing a fine job. 

He consoled himself for the lost pursuit by seeing to his beautiful pistols with loving care. Wiping them off first, he then worked the ramrod, wrapped in a bit of rag, back and forth inside the barrels, cleaning away all of the powder residue. The motion made him think of other things. He sighed; and once again, thought that he really should have married Elizabeth back in Camden.

  


The Dragoons found the rebels' camp the next day, but, following orders, did not engage them. Tavington was still of two minds about this. The rebels, though they had a large force and many fresh troops, were disheartened by yesterday's defeat. True, the Legion would have taken casualties, but they might have inflicted more. Regretfully, Tavington noted the enemy's dispositions, and then turned away to ferry over the James River and report to the Lord General.

Within a few days, his commander had a new mission for him.

  


Cornwallis had received intelligence of a large arms depot in southwestern Virginia, at the foot of the Blue Ridge Mountains. These arms and supplies were destined for Greene in South Carolina. Tavington was to destroy these supplies, and thus damage Greene's campaign in the south.

Strephon had wanted to go along, but Tavington and his men could take only the barest of gear on their own mounts: their weapons and ammunition, some rations, a few personal items, and their horsemen's cloaks for blankets. Tavington gave Strephon an advance on his wages, and instructions to see to his linen and other belongings while he was away. It would be a 400-mile round trip, in the heat of summer, and hard on men and horses. Virginia was, Tavington decided, slightly more bearable than South Carolina—but not much.

  


And after all, it was very nearly for nothing. The Lord General's information was faulty. On his arrival, Tavington discovered that the supplies had been shipped south over a month before. There was still raiding to be done, but the goal of their exhausting ride was a phantom. The one good thing about the journey was the large number of fine horses they confiscated. Visiting the farms of the known rebels from the Continental Army and the Assembly, they began gathering together some of the best horses Tavington had even seen. At last all of his Dragoons would have first-rate mounts. They could bring along the remainder.

At the farm of an absent assemblyman, Tavington had his eye on one horse in particular. A beautiful little black mare, spirited and quick-footed, was alone in a paddock. Tavington noted that she shied away from the grooms and flicked her ears in alarm at his approach. Wilkins was with him and shook his head.

"A pretty little thing, but she's too small for a cavalry charger. She can't be more than what—fourteen hands high? What do you want with her, Colonel?"

Tavington smiled. "She's not for me, Wilkins."

Wilkins was puzzled, and then understood. "Oh, you want her for Lizzie!"

"Yes." Tavington was quite entranced with the mare. She had everything one could wish for in a lady's hunter, and she was beautiful: with large, soft, intelligent eyes, and a lively temper. Too lively, perhaps; for she was tense, and Tavington wondered if she had been ill treated in the past. As he approached her, she jumped. Tavington wondered if it was the sound of his spurs, and he quickly removed them. The mare quieted, and Tavington walked up to her, making himself as unthreatening as possible.

Speaking softly to the little mare, he explained at length why she would be wise to make friends with him.

"My beauty, I really think you should surrender gracefully. If you are a sufficiently good girl, I shall take you away from these uncouth rebels. You will belong to a lovely lady, who would never touch you with a spur, and would treat you like the Queen of Horses." The mare eyed him cautiously, swishing her tail, and ready to flinch if struck. Tavington patiently kept his voice low, and began stroking her neck gently. "If I leave without you, you will always regret it. These bumpkins cannot possibly appreciate you." The mare seemed to agree, for she stood more quietly, allowing his caresses.

Tavington accepted a bridle from a groom, and slipped it on her. She tossed her head a little, but calmed down eventually. Tavington had gotten a look at her teeth: she was young, certainly not more than five years old. He held her head, speaking soothingly, while the groom put a blanket on her. When he put on her saddle, she began trembling, and Tavington redoubled his blandishments. He motioned to the groom to get away. Then he mounted her smoothly, with no frightening movements.

Between his thighs, he could feel her aliveness. She quivered, evidently fearing a painful experience; so Tavington allowed her to become accustomed to his weight before asking anything else of her. Some of the slaves and the dragoons gathered. The grooms were explaining to the onlookers how the mare had gotten into bad habits; shying away from riders, and striking out when startled. 

When Tavington urged her to a walk, she jumped again, but he was firm with her. Walking her around for awhile, he then persuaded her to a trot, and then a canter. 

"Open the gate," he called to the groom. Cantering out, he took her into a grassy meadow, and let her run. At first, she would still flinch at the feel of his heels, but she was obeying more readily, no longer expecting him to harm her. Tavington maneuvered the mare around the field, enjoying her grace and responsiveness. She had a pleasantly smooth gait, and was fast enough to please her future rider. He put her through her paces, disciplining her with gentle hands and hard thighs, until she moved willingly at his touch. 

He dismounted, and patted her flank. Standing beside her, he let her graze for a little, while he asked her opinion about a good name for her. 

"Elizabeth's last mare was named Zenobia, if I recollect aright. The warrior queen of Palmyra. What shall we call you?"

The mare was still, but listening. He ran a hand along her glossy withers, thinking.

"The Queen of Ethiopia—Candace. How does that sound to you?" The mare raised her head and snuffled softly into his hand. He gathered her reins up, and mounted her again. This time, she submitted to his commands without reluctance.

"Candace it shall be. And now let us leave this rebel-infested place, my queen."

  
  


They rejoined the army at its headquarters in Suffolk by July 24th. Cornwallis was disappointed by the failure to destroy the supplies, but was consoled by the horses, coming out to admire them at length. He found a big grey for himself as a spare mount. Since having his charger shot out from under him back in February, he was adamant about having a possible replacement in case of misfortune. Tavington refrained from asking him what they should do for a replacement in case the party shot was not the horse, but the rider. 

In a jovial mood over his splendid new acquisition, Cornwallis invited Tavington to join him in a glass of port. 

"It appears, Colonel, that none of us will be going to New York in the near future. I have had further communication from Sir Henry. He indicates that a naval base in the Chesapeake is of the highest moment; and that I am to move on to Old Point Comfort and Hampton Road, to assess their suitability for the purpose. Since I must create proper defenses for such a base, I am to detain what forces I deem necessary. We may be here for some time."

"And I, my lord?"

"Prepare your men. We will march to Portsmouth. You will continue on, with most of the cavalry, to Norfolk. There are some supplies collected there. Your men may make use of them."

Tavington thanked him, bowed, and left. _Supplies!_ Tavington wondered what they would find. After the past year, the Legion's uniforms and equipment were faded, ragged, and in general disrepair. Some men needed new weapons. 

Returning to the Legion encampment, Tavington passed on the orders, and found Strephon glad to see him. His new manservant had indeed taken care of his belongings. His linen was washed and mended, and also, somehow, ironed as well. The perfectly pressed stockings brought a smile to Tavington's lips.

"Well done, Strephon."

"I did just like you told me, Colonel. You sure have some mighty pretty shirts. Nobody'd mind ironing them."

On their arrival at Norfolk, Tavington immediately routed out the supplies the Lord General had permitted him. At last the Legion was properly outfitted, tailored, supplied, and equipped. Looking out at the ocean, Tavington recalled his Xenophon, and the march of the ten thousand to the sea. _Well, we are no ten thousand, unfortunately, but we have endured as much as they_. The men were in high spirits, admiring themselves and each other in their fresh uniforms. Inadequate weapons were discarded; and Strephon was able to obtain a damaged pistol, which he repaired carefully and added to the pair of knives he always wore.

Tavington clothed him properly, explaining that his new manservant must do him credit. As well as a good shirt, decent brown coat, breeches, and waistcoat, Tavington saw to it that he had a sturdy pair of boots, and shoes in addition for less rugged occasions. Strephon was delighted at his new splendor, though the weapons slung over him made him look a little like a pirate, albeit a prosperous one.

Cornwallis informed his officers that the engineers had determined that Old Point Comfort would not do for a base. Within a few days, they were to proceed further upriver to Gloucester point, and to Yorktown. 

Author's notes: Tarleton, in his account of the action at Green Springs, tells us he "gave money and encouraging promises to a Negro and a Dragoon, to communicate false intelligence."

The story of Tarleton and the black horse is one of the most colourful in the Tarleton apocrypha. The story has Tarleton brutally mastering a fierce black stallion with the aid of enormous spurs, which I feel does not do justice to Tarleton's fabled horsemanship. There is an essay on the Tarleton website suggesting a fictional origin for the story in a novel of Sir Walter Scott's. I also sense an echo of the ancient and lovely tale of Alexander and Bucephalus, in which the theme is not mastery, but the bond of love and sympathy between man and horse. I made the horse a mare because I am subversive, because I can, and because it serves the purposes of my story.

Xenophon's _Anabasis,_ variously rendered as the _March of the Ten Thousand_, _The March to the Sea_, or the _March Upcountry_, recounts one the great adventures of all time. The true story of an army of Greek mercenaries fighting its way out of hostile territory, it would have been studied by Tavington in school, and would still speak to him as a man. 


	25. Chapter TwentyFive: The World Turned Ups...

_Disclaimer: I do not own the rights to The Patriot, nor am I making any money writing this story. Poor me.  
_CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE: The World Turned Upside Down  


By the end of August, the _Guadeloupe_ had sailed north from Yorktown with dispatches detailing their situation from Cornwallis. The Lord General was anxiously awaiting word from Sir Henry Clinton as to his plans. He had made clear to his officers that he hoped that Sir Henry would be sending reinforcements, along with a squadron of the Royal Navy to secure their defenses. In the meantime, Tavington was delighted to receive a new batch of letters from Charlestown.   


__

Charlestown, August 10, 1781

My dearest William, 

We are all well, my dearest, and we all pray for your health and safety. 

Life goes on here in Charlestown, despite the war at our gates. My pupils are sweet girls, and shirk their lessons no more than other girls their age. Amelia and Julia are doing quite well, and are particularly enjoying the drawing lessons provided by the master Mrs. Rutherford engaged. It is a pity my father never wished to instruct them, for Amelia, especially, has a real talent.

Perhaps you know that Lord Rawdon fell ill, and was compelled by his bad health to return to England. We all regretted his departure, but we were introduced to the commander of the Charlestown garrison, Colonel Balfour, a pleasant and serious Scotsman. There was a ball that I am sure Amelia will describe in every detail to you. I too felt it was an agreeable diversion. I was so happy to see Amelia enjoying herself so thoroughly. I suppose I must accept that she is well and truly out now. After being her deputy mother for most of her life, it seems very strange to me. 

At any rate—the ball completely delighted her. An invitation for Mr. McKay was contrived, and they would have partnered one another for every dance, had I not prevented such an impropriety. I remembered my own first ball, which my parents hosted for me at Arcadia, the summer I returned from school at the age of seventeen, and I was glad that Amelia's experience was so much happier.

I know you must think it very odd for a woman to claim that she has never truly enjoyed herself at a ball, my love, but so it is. At that first ball there was not one partner there whose company gave me real pleasure. They were all too young, too old, or too common. I remember that I began the evening in great hopes; which in the course of the evening turned into a misery of boredom, an overwhelming desire to go to my bed, and a sad feeling of being very much alone. My subsequent experiences were never as bad, no longer having any great expectations.

I will say that the ball on the 7th was the best I have attended, not only because of Amelia's enjoyment, but because there were so many intelligent and well-bred people with whom to converse. Also—I shall tell you, but you may think me quite mad—I played a little secret game, pretending that you were there. When I was not conversing, I would imagine you, entering the ballroom, with that rather superior expression you sometimes assume. You know the one I mean, my dearest. Then your eyes would fall on me, and you would give me the sweet smile which is my very own. I further imagined you coming to sit beside me, and the impression was so strong that I was quite startled when old Mrs. Claverhouse dropped into your chair instead, in a cloud of powder and fawn-coloured satin. The contrast between the lady's plump, rouged cheeks and your own dear face was so disconcerting that I hardly know what I said to her.

Yes, my love, I did dance. I danced with Colonel Balfour, with some old acquaintances, and even with Mr. McKay, who, though he might have been prevented from dancing every dance with Amelia, could not be prevented from speaking of her incessantly. The poor boy is quite besotted. I understand your views, but really, seeing them dancing together, dressed in their best, they looked more than ever like Dresden figurines.

Mr. McKay is completely recovered, even to the extent of participating with the Legion infantry in the relief of Fort Ninety-Six back in June. I know you will be pleased. He is occasionally regretful about leaving the Dragoons, and once again asked me to convey his respects to you, but I believe he finds solace in the company he keeps in Charlestown. 

How I wish you could be here with me right now. I feel the lack of you every moment. I fear I was sadly spoiled having you with me at my Aunt's house for all those weeks. It seemed that just as I no longer needed to grieve over your suffering, you were well and in the saddle, bidding us adieu. Always remember that I am truly and only yours, and that I long for the day I can be yours even more completely.

You should receive this letter by the end of the month, surely. My birthday is August 29th. On the night of the 29th, at nine o'clock, look for the star Vega, in the constellation Lyra. I shall be looking at it then as well, and shall be thinking of you.

Your loving

Elizabeth  


The 29h was the day after tomorrow. It was a charming idea for a tryst. He remembered their first evening together when they had looked at the stars. He laughed. _My superior expression, indeed._ He opened Amelia's letter.  


__

Charlestown, August 10, 1781

Dearest Colonel Tavington,

I hope you are quite well, for we are. Surely Elizabeth wrote you about the marvelous ball we attended on the 7th. We needed only your presence to make the evening quite perfect. I am sure that no girl ever attended a more wonderful ball—not Cinderella, not Princess Briar Rose—not even the King's own daughters!

I must tell you how beautiful Lilabet looked. She did not really want to go, but she felt she must for my sake. She was actually going to wear her black silk! Can you imagine? However, I asked her if she wanted people to pity you or envy you. She took my point, and made herself quite lovely in your honour. Everyone said how well she looked. For myself, I think she looked a little sad sometimes, and now and then, I saw her sitting quietly, gazing quite oddly off into empty space, but then she would remember to make an effort. Mr. McKay said such kind things about her. I told him we would be writing you, and he said to send his respects to you and to all his old comrades. I know he misses the Dragoons very much.

Mr. McKay thinks the situation in South Carolina is very bad. Except for Charlestown and a few garrisons, the whole of the colony has been abandoned to the rebels. People come to the city every day with the most frightful stories. I must tell you that as things grow worse, there is an increasing fear that England will desert us. Many are leaving: for the Bahamas, for the West Indies, and for England even. I often think of Aunt Sarah Jane Minerva wondering where we shall all be next Christmas, and sometimes I am very much afraid.

Mr. McKay says I must not give in to my fear. I know he is right about this, as about so many other things. 

I am studying drawing, and am making portraits of everyone. They are not very good, but the drawing-master says I am improving. Mrs. Rutherford was scandalised that Lilabet allowed me to read Candide_ by Voltaire. Some of the book is indeed very cynical and shocking, but I was struck at the end at the talk of "cultivating one's garden." I spoke to Mr. McKay of it, and we both remembered last Christmas, and you speaking of the day you and Lilabet would plan a garden together. Such thoughts seem very sweet and far away, but I trust we shall all cultivate our gardens one day soon in peace._

I remain, sir, your obedient servant.

Amelia Wilde  


Tavington smiled at the quote from Voltaire_. Someday we shall all be together, and I shall tell them about Thomas Jefferson's gardens. _He longed to see his Wilde girls. If Sir Henry did not come soon, perhaps the Lord General would consider a retreat into South Carolina. He would like nothing better than to face some of his old enemies there again. 

He turned to Julia's letter. _Where did she find pink sealing wax?  
_

Charlestown, August 10, 1781

Dearest Colonel Tavington,

I hope you are well. Lilabet and I are all right. Amelia is so, so, happy all the time. It is very wearing. I expect they told you about that ball. I couldn't go, of course, because I am too young. I know that sometimes children go to balls, but Lilabet said this was not one of the times. Anyway, I stayed at the school and read Moll Flanders while they were away. So there!

You never saw such a to-do as that ball caused. First, Lilabet and Amelia had a big discussion about what Lilabet would wear. I agreed with Amelia that Lilabet should not dress like a grandmother. So she wore her pretty green gown, and she wore a wonderful petticoat embroidered with flowers that she has been working on for at least these three ages. She pinned your cameo to the front of her gown, and she wore Aunt's pearls, and her own pearl earrings. And then, when we helped dress her hair, we arranged some of Mamma's pearls there too, and they looked so pretty in her dark hair. She was beautiful, and I was proud she was my sister. 

Amelia looked very nice too, but I was sick of all the commotion. She wore her new blue gown. You probably don't care about ladies' gowns, but I can tell you they are very important to ladies. Amelia already had her pretty rose gown, but she always hated it. I'll wager you did not know that. She hates pink, but I like it. When it was made, Aunt made her wear the rose colour because it would look pretty next to Lilabet's, but a blue gown would clash. 

Do you remember that ring of Charles Crawford's? The one Lilabet threw at him the night he came to rob us? Well, right after we arrived here, we went and we sold that ring, as Lilabet said we would. And then we divided the money, just like pirates with treasure. We each got a third, and Lilabet said we could buy whatever we liked. Well, Lilabet bought a lot of muslin and other stuff to make sheets and dull things like that. I said it was dull anyway, but Lilabet laughed, and said they wouldn't be dull when she was finished with them, and they wouldn't be dull when they were in the house you and she would keep together. I suppose one must have sheets. We have made a lot of them, anyway. I guess we have made enough sheets for the whole British Legion, and Lord Cornwallis, too.

I bought drawing pencils and lots of crayons, and my own special sealing wax, and a nice writing desk of my very own. It is the kind that can be unfolded and set on a table or on my lap. It is very smooth and shiny and it has a lock and a key. I carry the key in my pocket all the time, and no one can see what I keep in my desk. It is important to respect the privacy of others.

Melly bought about a ton of blue satin with her share. I admit it is a very pretty blue, like the sky when it is just starting to get dark. Lilabet agrees that blue is Melly's colour. Well, when she got the satin home, she threw the pink gown out of her clothes press and said that no one was going to make her wear pink ever again. It's an ill wind that blows nobody good, as they say. Lilabet is making that dress over for me, and I expect I shall look very pretty. I told Lilabet so, but she told me that nobody likes a vain little girl.

Anyway, we made that blue gown for Amelia and it was very nice. And she wore her new pearl earrings from Aunt, and she wore a double ruffle of lace around her neck. That was the thing I liked best. The DeLanceys came and got them and took them to the ball. Melly stayed with Lilabet that night when they got back, so Melly wouldn't disturb me. It was quite bad enough the next day listening to her go on and on and on about how wonderful it all was, but it was a change from repeating everything that David McKay boy says. But then she started doing that too, because he had been there. 

I remember all about that day, because that Judge DeLancey came to call that afternoon, and he and Lilabet had a terrible quarrel in the parlour. He wanted her to go with him to the Bahamas. He said the war was lost and it was time to consider our future. I got frightened listening to him, and Melly told me not to listen, but then she listened too. In the end he started saying horrid things about you and that you were never coming back anyway. Lilabet told him he would have to leave, and to say goodbye to his mother and sister. He was so angry that he didn't even bow when he left. Lilabet went up to her room and wouldn't come out for hours. 

I was glad to hear that he and his family left the next day. By the time you read this, they will be in Nassau. I am sorry about Mrs. DeLancey, because I liked her. I wouldn't have minded if she had stayed with us. 

Anyway, that is the history of the ball. I am not sure now I want to go to balls, as they get people so stirred up.

Your obedient servant,

Julia Wilde  


So that was that. He need not worry about his rival DeLancey. He wondered what he would have done in the fellow's place. Would he leave a woman he professed to love in danger? He hoped not, though rescuing her might have meant carrying Elizabeth bodily onto a waiting ship, while recommending to her sisters that they come along if they wished to see her again. It was an amusing picture, and he would tease her about it someday. Still, he was moved. Elizabeth had shown the highest loyalty to him, and had permanently burnt her bridges with a man who had far more to offer than himself. 

Win or lose, where would they go? He had no desire or reason to return to England. There was nothing for him there. They might buy or rent a property, but their money would not go as far in England as it would in a colony, and everyone they met would know about his family's disgrace. He had already made it clear that he would not go south to heat and fever. What did that leave? _If we win, some northern colony. _He had spent considerable time in New York and New Jersey. There were some very nice places there. Or --who could say? Perhaps he might end up in Ohio after all. Any land grant would probably be on the frontier. They might be able to do something with the Kentucky property if the Lord General's campaign in Virginia were thoroughly victorious.

__

If we do not win—probably some place in Canada, I should think. He had never been to Canada, and knew little about it. 

It was all such a tangle: a knot of _ifs _and _buts_ and _maybes_. His mind circled endlessly around the opposing possibilities of winning or losing. It was pointless to keep worrying about it. They would all simply have to live through the war, and he could sort it out later.

Strephon had already made it clear that he was going wherever his employer went, whether Tavington liked it or not. His new manservant had proved a fortunate find. Ironically, though he had found employment that could excuse him from it, Strephon still joined in the unceasing work on the fortifications, along with the other freedmen who had attached themselves to the army. The engineers needed all the help they could get; for in addition to the defenses, plans for the projected naval base were in the works. Sir Henry and the fleet should appear any day now. 

On the night of the 29th, he checked his watch. His mother smiled lovingly at him, obviously approving of his plans for the evening. He left his lodgings, and was soon past the bustle of the camp. He stood on the banks of the York River. Vega was almost directly above him. Somewhere, far to the south, Elizabeth was looking up at the sky and thinking of him. Next year, perhaps, they would celebrate her birthday together. He knew he would never forget the date.

As it happened, there were other reasons to make the day memorable. For on the following day, the 30th, sails appeared in the Chesapeake. They were not, however, Sir Henry and the Royal Navy. They were the French, and Cornwallis and his little army were trapped.  


__

How could it come to this? Not for many years would the sorry tale of laziness and incompetence, of personal vanity and suspicious rivalry be thoroughly compassed. The loyal colonists could not be aware of the very different priorities at home in England, where the disproportionate power of the wealthy sugar planters in the West Indies saw to it that the protection of their property and interests was paramount.

Tavington only saw his world contracting to Yorktown and the elaborate defenses encircling it; and to the little outpost on Gloucester Point, across the river, from whence he often led the Dragoons on foraging expeditions.

How could they escape the tightening noose? On the first arrival of the French, he had suggested to the Lord General that they attempt a breakthrough of the French lines before more of the enemies' troops could arrive. Cornwallis considered it, and then rejected it as too rash and too unlikely to succeed. Day by day, their enemies multiplied. Finally, on September 30, Cornwallis ordered the outer works abandoned; and the troops were pulled back to the inner defenses of Yorktown. There was still hope that Sir Henry and his relief force would appear any day. Word had been dispatched by express riders of the army's desperate predicament. Surely some had gotten though. 

They still could cross the river, and a few ships of the Royal Nay were blockaded in with them. Using these, the Legion could be ferried back and forth as necessary. 

Food was getting scarce. Their raids into the Gloucester peninsula were becoming more and more fraught with danger, as it became necessary to go farther and farther to find adequate supplies for the army.

At daybreak on October 2nd, Tavington led the Legion out of the outpost at Gloucester Point, accompanied by part of the 17th foot and some dragoons from the Queen's Rangers. They had to go many miles, but eventually found barns full of corn from the recent harvest. Loading their wagons, they began the slow trek back to the outpost. They had been lucky to find so much, but it would have to last for awhile. 

"Militia!" called out Wilkins. Tavington turned in the saddle. Some mounted rebels were closing in behind them. 

"Get those wagons moving!" shouted Tavington. "Dragoons to the rear!" They must screen the wagons, and make sure the supplies made it to their lines. He ordered his men to wait for the enemy at the bend of a road, hidden behind enough cover to conceal their position. The rebels came on, and were shocked to find themselves suddenly facing cavalry. Some fled. A few dallied too long and were cut down. Tavington, a little farther away, bagged two of them with his pistols. The wagons were nearly to the woods in front of Gloucester. The rebels dispatched, Tavington thought it best to reconnoitre, and sent Wilkins and a part of his troop to observe the rear. 

He was carefully reloading his pistols, when Wilkins came racing back. 

"Colonel! The enemy is approaching in force!"

__

Didn't they understand us the first time? Tavington smiled grimly, and asked Wilkins, "More militia?"

"No sir! I think they're the French!" Tavington pulled out his telescope at once, and could see a cloud of dust, moving rapidly in their direction. A moment later, he could make out a large body of horsemen---who indeed were garbed in the sky blue of the French.

"Captain Wilkins, you and your troop will stay with me! Hovenden! Take the rest of the men to the woods and face about!" He leaned toward Wilkins, "We shall have a look at the enemy and see what we make of them. We must delay them long enough for the wagons to reach the outpost. If necessary, we'll let them push us back slowly toward the balance of our men in the woods."

As the French came on, Tavington could see that some of them were lancers. _I've never fought a lancer before. _Tavington thought quickly about the kind of tactics needed to fight a man armed with an eight-foot spear. It was a formidable weapon, but if one could get past the point of the lance, and in close, the lancer would be nearly helpless. _Pistols to be reserved in case of emergency_, he decided.

Spurring Aeolus forward, he led the troop against the approaching riders. The French, bright as birds of paradise in their sky blue and yellow, were easy targets. _So they must think us_, Tavington realised. _One couldn't have a more colourful battle, at least_. The French fought well, but Tavington immediately saw that their horses were far inferior to Aeolus and the Virginia bred mounts of the Legion. The Green Dragoons were in among them, their horses quicker, stronger, and not worn out from a long ocean voyage. 

Tavington found himself pursued by a lancer, but he pulled Aeolus about and was past the lance point and within sabre's reach of the unlucky Frenchman in a moment. Tavington's blade slashed the man across the chest, and his enemy gushed blood, slid from the saddle, and was dragged a few yards under the hooves of the milling horses. 

Further ahead, he saw a splendidly accoutered hussar, his saddle adorned with a leopardskin. _Could it be the_ _Duc du Lauzun himself_? The Frenchman looked his way. A fierce, dark, intelligent face, intent on combat. This was a man worth fighting, and Tavington hacked his way toward him. The noisy, cursing press around him thinned a moment. His opponent paused, and gave a hint of a nod. Tavington smiled, and felt the grim joy of battle settle down around him, ready to carry him away. Lifting his sword, Tavington urged Aeolus to greater speed.

He was blindsided by a rearing horse, wounded and screaming in pain. Aeolus rocked with the collision. Tavington was literally kicked off his mount, landing off to the left. He heard his men's shouts of alarm at seeing him unhorsed. A lancer, seeing him down, turned his horse and rushed at him, lance pointed full at Tavington. 

An extraordinary memory flashed before him. Benjamin Martin, his flag held like a lance, awaiting Tavington's charge. Now the roles were reversed. It was he, unhorsed, whom the lancer thought easy prey. Gripping his sword with both hands, Tavington waited. _Avoid the point, and then slash the bastard out of the saddle._

The Frenchman was only feet away. Tavington twisted, and the point missed him by a handsbreath. Reflexively, he swung his sword at the passing horseman. A splash of blood, a scream passed him by. Aeolus was near, waiting for him. He started to make a dash for his mount, when he heard Wilkins' shout.

"Colonel! Behind you!"

Tavington whirled. Almost upon him was another lancer who had moved in unnoticed. Tavington threw himself to the side, and Wilkins' big horse was immediately between him and the Frenchman. Stumbling, and half-blinded by the dust, Tavington looked again for his mount. Wilkins had Aeolus' reins, and was holding them out for Tavington, when the lancer threw his weapon, transfixing the captain through the chest.

Wilkins was a big man, and not even the lance's impact could dislodge him from his mount. Horrified, Tavington vaulted into Aeolus' saddle to support him. The Frenchman galloped up, reaching for the shaft of his weapon. Instantly, Tavington drew a pistol and shot the man in the face. 

He looked for help, and saw to his dismay that his concealed troops in the woods had broken cover and were running toward him in complete disorder. More French, including some infantry, were approaching. A band of Wilkins' dragoons closed in around their colonel and their captain, sheltering them from direct assault.

Wilkins was conscious, but in shock, blood trickling from his mouth. Tavington gripped his shoulder with one hand, and gave the lance a hard pull with the other. The point came free with a gush of blood. Wilkins swayed in the saddle. Tavington tossed the lance to the ground in disgust.

There was no time to waste. Tavington saw Wilkins' senior lieutenant, Duncan Monroe.

"Get him back to the surgeons! Move!" Monroe slid from his own saddle directly behind Wilkins, holding the captain up. He took the reins, and set off at full tilt toward Gloucester Point. Tavington tried to organise the chaos threatening them all. 

"Retreat!" Waving at them all, he pulled them back as quickly as he could. After about three hundred yards, he saw a thicket to the right. He ordered some of the infantry into it, and to fire a volley at the pursuing French cavalry. Rallying the Dragoons, he charged the hussars.

It worked. The French cavalry pulled back behind their oncoming infantry. Tavington got the Dragoons to cover, while the infantries exchanged fire.

At least they had achieved their purpose. _By now the wagons have certainly arrived at the outpost. _Tavington gathered his troops, and herded them carefully back to safety.  


Once back at Gloucester Point, Tavington raced to the surgeon's tent, and dismounted. He looked for Wilkins, but instead saw Monroe, sitting on a campstool nearby. Monroe glanced up and came over. Sick at heart, Tavington could read the lieutenant's expression before he uttered a word.

"He's dead, then?"

Monroe was covered in blood, and plainly exhausted. He looked at the ground, and shuffled the toe of a big boot idly in the dust before answering.

"Dead before we got here, sir. I got to the surgeons, and they helped me get him down from the horse, but he must have died during the ride back."

Tavington could not respond for a moment. Somehow, if it came to the worst, he had pictured being at Wilkins' side; comforting him and assuring him of his respect and gratitude. It was not right, it was not right that Cousin James was dead and that Tavington had said nothing.

Monroe offered quietly, "He could feel me holding him up, sir. He wasn't alone."

Tavington found his voice. "Where is he?"

"They laid him out in back, sir. The wounded don't like a dead man lying in the hospital tent, you know." 

"Yes."

"I took the liberty of removing the captain's valuables from his person, Colonel. You were the closest he had to kin, so I thought you were the one to have them." Monroe reached into his waistcoat pockets, and handed Tavington a gold watch, a man's signet ring, and some money. Tavington took them, stared at them blankly a moment, and then pocketed them himself.

"Thank you, Monroe."

The lieutenant continued, "We thought we'd ferry him back this evening for the burial, along with the load of provisions. His troop would like to be present, sir."

"Of course." He cleared his throat. "See to it. You are in command of the troop for now. I---I am going to…. I shall pay my respects."

"Sir."

Tavington made his way through the tent to the shade behind it. The long shape under the coarse blanket could be no one else. The casualties had been surprisingly light—only five others of their men killed, he gathered. He sat down on the ground by Wilkins and gently uncovered his face. Wilkins appeared asleep: for someone, probably the compassionate Monroe, had already closed his eyes. Tavington raised the blanket higher, exposing the appalling wound. It had been madness on his part to imagine anyone could survive it. 

He remembered Wilkins at the ball at Charleston, grinning with delight; giving the loyal toast at the dinner after Camden; lending his support to acts he obviously found personally painful and horrifying; leaning over him like a hulking guardian angel at Cowpens; at Christmas, lit by the golden light of candles; in a moment of peace and good-fellowship, raising his glass to him in a strange dining parlour in North Carolina. So human, so full of vitality, and now, one of the innumerable losses of the war. The flies were beginning to buzz around the dead man, and Tavington quietly replaced the blanket. 

Wilkins' big right hand was flung out. The ring finger was bruised. _Monroe must have done that, getting the ring off for me._ Tavington recalled that the last act of that hand had been to hold out Tavington's reins to him. Tavington lifted the hand and kissed the battered knuckles. "My dear cousin James."  


Their destruction was certain, if they remained; but they could not get out. Or could they? Tavington had thought hard for days, searching for a plan to lay before the Lord General, to cheat the rebels and their allies of their victory. He knew he was not alone. He knew that Cornwallis was literally sick from devising and discarding ways to escape the imminent disaster. Sir Henry had failed them: their salvation must be of their own contriving. 

Meanwhile, they had been subjected to a massive and savage bombardment. The house Cornwallis had used as headquarters had been an easy target, and was now in ruins. The rebels and the French were creeping forward, their own siegeworks advancing and taking redoubt after redoubt of the British defenses. 

That evening, Tavington made his way to the Lord General. He gave his name and was shown in immediately. Cornwallis and O'Hara were there, grimly studying the map and the casualty lists. They looked up as Tavington entered, and Cornwallis nodded.

"Colonel Tavington. You wished to see me?"

"My lord, I have, for some days, been devising a plan that may save us." Cornwallis winced, and O'Hara looked exasperated. Tavington continued, "Hear me out, I pray you, for I feel it might very well do."

O'Hara muttered, "It might very well do for us all indeed." Cornwallis silenced him with a look. O'Hara began again, first with an apology. "I beg your pardon, Colonel, I spoke without thought. I have been urging his lordship to make a sortie against the enemy. We cannot surrender in honour without attempting to defend ourselves."

Tavington nodded gravely. "I agree that a sortie would be appropriate under our circumstances." Both Cornwallis and O'Hara studied him warily. "I believe that a sortie, made the day before, would prove a useful diversionary tactic in concealing our escape."

He had their undivided attention now, and used the map to illustrate.

"The Gloucester Peninsula is not yet fully invested by the enemy. It is true that with the Duc du Lauzun's cavalry and Brigadier de Choisy's infantry present, the British Legion cannot penetrate inland for foraging expeditions. However, the enemy troops are adequate only to stave off the Legion. They could not resist the full strength of our army."

Cornwallis leaned back in his chair, already grasping the possibilities of the idea. O'Hara frowned, not critically, but reflectively. 

He said, "Moving the entire army across the river would be a huge undertaking. It would have to be done at night, and could not be done all at once, with the ships at our disposal."

Tavington had anticipated this. "By my calculations, it would take three trips. It could be done in one night, with luck and good weather. A few units would have to be sacrificed, to keep the fires going and maintain a visible presence. The enemy could not see our activities on the water, for we still hold the points of the river above and below us."

Cornwallis, though pale with his indisposition, was still thinking rapidly. "But what then, Colonel? We cross the river, we assemble the troops, and then we punch through the French lines. I can see that these things may be possible, but we might well have traded one trap for another."

Tavington leaned forward, and spoke rapidly, for this was the part of the plan that most excited him. "We make a run for it! Hear me out! The French fight well, but their horses are no match for ours. Our cavalry will press the French back, and our infantry, accustomed to quick marches under arduous conditions, will be carrying three days of provisions on their backs. We can mount a good portion of the infantry on the spare horses we have captured and on the horses of the quartermaster and the artillery. With a surprise attack, a large portion of the French horses could fall into our hands. It is entirely likely that enough horses would come our way that we could mount a good half of our infantry before we are fifty miles from Gloucester."

Cornwallis and O'Hara were paying close attention. Tavington went on, "The country between the York and Rappahanock Rivers is as rich as any in America, and has not been invaded during the entire course of the war. It abounds with grain, cattle, and horses. The time of year is favourable, for the harvest will be in and waiting for us. Once we get one hundred miles between us and the enemy, we shall be able to determine our own fate: whether to head north for a possible rendezvous with Sir Henry; or to head south, high enough into the country that we can ford all the rivers, and make our way to our fortified places in South Carolina."

Fired with hope, they talked late into the night, working out the details of the plan. Cornwallis decided that the 16th of October would be the date of the sortie, and that the following night would see the escape plan put into action. Accordingly, before dawn on the 16th, Colonel Abercrombie with some 350 men of the Foot Guards and the grenadiers of the 80th Foot broke out of the siegeworks and attacked the enemy artillery batteries that threatened them. Caught off guard, the enemy reeled back for a time, and the British succeeded in spiking seven cannons before the French drove them back behind the British lines.  


An uneasy silence settled as darkness fell. At 11 p.m., Tavington, on the Gloucester side of the river, sent over all the ships and boats at their disposal. Cornwallis, though sick with a bout of his recurrent malaria, was waiting to send over the first wave of the troops, 1000 men of the Guards and light Infantry. The process was painfully slow, but shortly before 1a.m. they were disembarking at the outpost on Gloucester point. The wind was picking up. 

Tavington felt the first drops of cold rain with a growing despair. "This isn't over!" he shouted at the sky. His subordinates stared at him anxiously. First tentatively, then with mounting violence, the storm progressed. The ships did not dare put out in the wild winds. The entire British Army watched the heavens as their last hope expired.

The storm passed before dawn. Word arrived from the Lord General to send back those troops that had arrived at the outpost. Depressed and weary, they re-embarked for the inevitable outcome.  


The Lord General, still too ill to leave his quarters, did not attend the surrender. Thinking it better to bear the sarcasm of the Americans than to fall on his face before them, he sent O'Hara as his representative. The British officers were allowed to keep their arms: the enlisted men, under the terms of surrender, were made to relinquish theirs. One by one, as the drums rolled, and the band played a melancholy dirge, they laid down their weapons. Some of the men were shedding tears, and hurled their weapons down angrily.

"Stop that at once!" ordered O'Hara. "You are British soldiers, and you will conduct yourselves as such; not as children!"

Tavington, sitting silently on Aeolus, knew that a page of his life had turned forever. His glance swept the field, taking in the proud but compassionate gaze of the French, the surprisingly restrained demeanour of the rebels, and the stalwart dignity of his own men. 

Resolutely, the British turned their eyes toward the white and gold standards of France, ignoring the rebel colours; and endured the ceremonies of defeat, under the bright, impartial sun.  
  
---   


Author's notes: "On the day [October 19, 1781] that the surrender was signed, Admiral Graves and Sir Henry Clinton, with seven thousand men aboard their fleet, sailed at last…. Five days later they reached the mouth of Chesapeake Bay, where they encountered a small boat with a white man and two blacks, who brought them the news from Yorktown. The ships turned round and sailed away north again, back to New York." From _Red Coats and Rebels_, by Christopher Hibbert. My other major sources for this part of the story were _Yorktown 1781_, by Brendan Morrissey (very useful diagrams of the battles), and of course, Tarleton's own _Campaigns._

The general conduct of the Royal Navy throughout the Revolution shows them at far from their best. Admiral Graves was lazy and incompetent, and the rivalry between Graves and his subordinates was as childish and harmful as that between Clinton and Cornwallis. However, in fairness, the Navy was being given a tall order, since they had to defend all the British held cities, fight the French and American ships in Colonial waters—and above all, protect the British West Indies. Men like Elizabeth's Uncle Ned Everleigh, wealthy from their vast and valuable sugar plantations, had great influence in England, and diverted much of the Royal Navy's resources from the conflict in the thirteen colonies.

Sir Henry Clinton, an admirable soldier in many ways, behaved with great irresolution in the months prior to the Yorktown surrender. Apparently torn between genuine prudence and professional jealousy of Cornwallis, he gave conflicting orders, and hesitated to send help even when the desperate situation of Cornwallis and his men was made clear to him. Again, in fairness, some his delay in setting out was due to the Royal Navy's delay in repairing the needed ships.

The chapter title is from a popular song of the time, reported (erroneously) to have been played by the British bandsmen during the surrender.

It has sometimes been said that the period from the start of the War of the Spanish Succession in 1701 to the Battle of Waterloo in 1815 constituted a second Hundred Years' War between Great Britain and France. The American Revolution is the one episode of this war that the French won. It is important to remember, even (or perhaps especially) for those of us who are Americans, that the Revolution was looked upon by the world at large as part of a much greater struggle; and also, that without the help and cooperation of our foreign allies, the Colonies would never have achieved independence. History lesson over. Now let's try to apply it to the 21st century. 

Thank you to my wonderful reviewers: Zubeneschamali, Slytherin Dragoon, Foodie, Anchovyeater1, Kontara, ladymarytavington, Kathrinetavington, and Carmen Sandiego.. I still have a few chapters to go, and your support and input mean a great deal.


	26. Chapter TwentySix: True Friends

Disclaimer: I do not own the rights to _The Patriot. This is my favourite chapter of the entire story. I hope you enjoy it! _   
  
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX: True Friends 

New York was more than a city. It was an army camp, the largest in the world. Tavington had arrived November 19 with the rest of the army that had given its parole. The war was over for him now.

The month before arriving, subsequent to the surrender, had been thoroughly disagreeable and occasionally humiliating. A number of reconciliatory dinners had been held by the Colonials for their British counterparts: dinners from which Tavington had been pointedly excluded. 

The unpleasantness had begun early, with an ugly scene at one of the conferences. Cornwallis and his officers had been discussing the mechanics of the evacuation with Washington , Lafayette and their staff. Tavington was seated at the table between O'Hara and Abercrombie, when a number of Colonial officers entered the room. Washington looked up and spoke a greeting to Harry Burwell. Next to Burwell was an unknown French officer, and beside him, Colonel Benjamin Martin. 

Martin's eyes met Tavington's, and a moment later, the militiaman had launched himself over the conference table, knife drawn. 

Tavington kicked his chair back instantly, caught Martin's knife hand, and the two men crashed grappling to the floor together.

Cornwallis was shouting, red with fury, "This is the conduct of your officers at a parley?"

Martin was trying to grip Tavington by the throat. He snarled. "You should be dead, you bastard!"

Pulling Martin's fingers back to the breaking point, Tavington hissed in his old enemy's ear, "Apparently you're no better at killing me than your _son_ was."

Washington threw an icy glance at Burwell and his own staff. Immediately a half-dozen men were pulling Martin away. Tavington lifted his knee in an unobtrusive but painful blow to speed his assailant's departure. He got to his feet, straightening his jacket. O'Hara put a restraining hand on his arm. The Colonials could barely hold the enraged Martin. The Frenchman accompanying him did not bother to try, and examined Tavington curiously, as if seeing some species of vermin that needed speedy eradication. 

Burwell was trying to quiet Martin, a friendly remonstrance in his ear, "Ben----Ben----let it go. This isn't the place----"

"He killed my sons," said Martin, hoarsely.

Some of the officers murmured among themselves. O'Hara spoke up, unimpressed. "For all I know," he coldly told Martin, "you might have killed mine."

There was a brief silence, broken only by Martin's heavy breathing. Washington and Cornwallis caught the other's eye.

Washington commanded calmly, "I believe Colonel Martin needs some time to compose himself. If you gentlemen would see to it…"

With no further comment, Burwell and his friends hustled Martin from the room. Washington looked at Tavington a moment longer, a frosty regard that made Tavington glad, in retrospect, that he had had the Lord General to deal with. The conference resumed.

After that, Tavington had remained in his quarters a great deal; going out to regularly exercise Aeolus or Candace, sometimes dining with his subordinates from the Legion, but most frequently moping over a book. Strephon was quietly sympathetic, but not obtrusive, and Tavington found his presence soothing. Tavington was still grieving for Wilkins. He hated to see the faithful fellow's trunk among his possessions. He had not felt able to open it yet, and would not enjoy writing to Elizabeth about her cousin's death. 

One night, returning to the inn where he was staying, he had found his bed hacked to pieces, a broken window showing how his would-be assailant had gained entry. He wondered if it had been Martin, or men of his. There was no way to seek proper satisfaction in his current circumstances.

He had appealed to some of the French officers, who had been shocked at the breach of military etiquette shown by the attack. Some of them had turned out to be rather decent fellows, and Tavington spent a few idle hours polishing his rusty French with them. These officers had spoken to the Colonials, and made it clear that Tavington's safety was a matter of honour for them. There were no further disturbances. He heard that Martin had been sent home.

As he undressed one night, he looked again at his scars from Cowpens. Martin had marked him forever: _but,_ he reminded himself, _I marked him as well. And here I am, alive and well, while his two sons are rotting in their graves. If there is a balance-sheet of men's affairs kept somewhere, I believe I must still be considered the winner._

He and Cornwallis had plotted together to slip one last thing past the Colonials. On the first of the ships evacuating the British, they had taken care to load the Loyalist officers and men who might be prosecuted for treason by the rebel government. The Colonials would not agree to any provision in the terms of surrender protecting these men, and Tavington was not about to allow their loyalty to be rewarded with a noose. Nearly the entire remaining Legion had been safely evacuated to New York.

What now? His men were encamped and going through the motions of drill and discipline, but plainly the British Legion no longer had any reason for existence. Some of the men had taken to military life, and he could see they were transferred to permanent regiments. Tavington, like many of his men, wanted to leave the army, and make a start elsewhere.

He wrote to Elizabeth, telling her of her cousin's fate, telling her of his own situation: that he had given his parole, that he was in New York in lodgings on Queen's Street, and that he wished more than anything in the world that she and her sisters would join him as soon as possible. He thought of her with tenderness mixed with anxiety. _After so many weary months, does she still want me? Perhaps she has changed her mind. Perhaps the thought of taking ship for New York and leaving everything she has known will be too fearsome. _He patted the pocket nearest his heart, the one that held the emerald ring that he hoped she would soon be wearing.

With the city so crowded, he had been lucky to find shabby but decent lodgings that would accommodate himself and his future family. The landlady had, with some persuasion, given Strephon a small garret room upstairs. Tavington certainly was not going to make his manservant sleep on the floor of his lodgings. Strephon was pleased to have a room of his own for the first time in his life, and enjoyed using his wages to buy himself some small comforts for it.

The King's commissioners were making every effort to provide for the hordes of refugees. New York was the great embarkation point. Former Crown officials, farmers, ex-soldiers, widows and children, terrified blacks fearing re-enslavement: thousands were crowding into the city and looking to Britain to help them. To its credit, the King's government seemed determined to do so. It was plainly going to be a great and time-consuming enterprise, however. While the British still held Charlestown and Savannah, it seemed only a matter of time before those cities, too, were evacuated, and even more unhappy refugees arrived in New York, seeking help.

Tavington had thought long and hard about what to do. Opportunities were there: he had to choose the right one. Some of his officers, like Kinlock, were going to Britain. Others, like Alan Cameron, were off to seek adventure in Europe. Some were interested in going up the St. Lawrence River deeper into Canada, and were joining a party that would be traveling there in the spring. A few were sailing south, to take up planting in British Florida, or in the West Indies. Many more would be going to Nova Scotia, to settle there.

He was walking up the Broadway, thinking to himself, when a remembered voice called out, "Colonel! Colonel Tavington!"

He looked in the direction of the voice, and suddenly felt a hundred times better. "My dear Bordon! This is splendid!" He crossed the street and gave his old captain a hearty handshake. "My dear fellow, I am glad to see you looking so well!"

Bordon, indeed, was not looking too badly, though thinner and paler than he had been in his days with the Green Dragoons. He was not alone. A lady was beside Bordon, her arm in his, and she was plainly in an interesting condition. Tavington was waiting to be introduced, when he recognized her.

"Polly Featherstone!"

"Mrs. Bordon," corrected his friend, firmly. Polly cast an apprehensive glance at Tavington, as if fearing he would denounce her as a trollop in the very street. She certainly did not look the part: she had, rather, grown both softer and prettier, glowing as many women in her condition often did.

Tavington bowed courteously over her hand. "Mrs. Bordon, what a great pleasure to see yet another good friend. I wish you both every happiness, indeed." They looked each at the others for a moment, sorting out the new relationships and new manners required of them. Bordon smiled.

"Perhaps you would do us the honour of dining with us at our lodgings tonight?"

Tavington returned the smile, "The honour would be mine, sir." Life in New York began to take on a pleasanter aspect.

The Bordons' lodgings, though not very elegant, had the advantage of a very good cook. Tavington felt uncommonly relaxed and happy sitting there over a glass of wine. Bordon was full of information: he had been working on the staff here in New York since July, and had been collecting information about the various places the government was settling the loyal people. Bordon himself was inclined toward Nova Scotia.

"I've had enough of heat and insects to last me a lifetime. The weather, though cold in the winter, is temperate in the summer months. One has to be careful though; some of the places there are better than others for the crops."

Bordon, it seemed, quite fancied something in the Annapolis valley. It had been settled by the French, now exiled since 1755. One could still find the remains of their homes and orchards, it was said. It was a sheltered place, with fertile soil, and not likely to be the object of much political contention.

"Some New Englanders have already gone there, I hear, but I have nothing against Yankees. Hard-working, decent people enough, as long you keep your wits about you when they're driving a bargain."

The landlady entered, wanting a word with Bordon. He excused himself, and left his wife and Tavington sitting together. A clock ticked off the time in the silence.

Polly spoke first. "Colonel, I am very obliged to you for your kindness today. I was afraid—you know what I have been, and I know I am not nearly good enough for Hugh—"

"My dear Mrs. Bordon," said Tavington quietly, "all I have ever wanted was a fresh start in life. Do not imagine I would deny a friend the same chance."

She smiled. "I always knew you were a good man." Tavington gave a sardonic laugh, and shook his head. "You are," she insisted, "much better than you think." She grew a little sad, and toyed with her half-empty wineglass. "I still think about him sometimes; about my Major, you know. Do you think me wicked?"

"I think it would be worse to forget him altogether." She still looked sad, and Tavington added, "I know he would be very glad to see you so happy and well-cared-for. And so healthy." He gave a sly glance at her burgeoning belly, and she smiled, a little embarrassed. He repeated, "I know it: and you must never doubt it."

Tavington felt much happier since coming upon the Bordons. It made the time spent waiting for a letter from Elizabeth easier to bear. He began thinking over what Bordon had said about Nova Scotia. Perhaps it was the right place for him, as well. He doubted that Elizabeth and the girls would care much for cold winters, but perhaps they might enjoy a release from the overpowering heat and damp of South Carolina summers. He had already made it clear to Elizabeth that he had no desire to live permanently in a place like Florida or Jamaica, with the ever-present danger of fever.

Coming back to his rooms one evening, he was thrilled to find a letter waiting for him; and then cruelly disappointed to see that it was not from Elizabeth, but was, instead, an invitation to a ball.

Lord Cornwallis and a number of the other generals and senior officers were leaving New York December 20th. There already had been a round of parties and entertainments. Some Tavington had attended: some he had not. They were dull indeed without Elizabeth. The ball was set for December 17th. Unless he heard from her with extraordinary rapidity, there was no chance she could be here to attend. Once again, he would be at a ball without the lady with whom he actually wished to dance. He wondered if he would ever have the opportunity at all.

In the end, he decided he would attend, and he would take Bordon with him. Polly's confinement was upon her; her condition now too far advanced for her to venture out in public. Bordon would enjoy the spectacle, and then could tell Polly all about it. Tavington would have someone with whom he could sneer at the other attendees. It seemed the best solution all around.

Strephon was delighted at the opportunity to show his skills in preparing his Colonel for the ball. Tavington flatly refused powder, which he thought a filthy custom, but he allowed to Strephon to shave him carefully, and dress his hair in a more fashionable style. 

"If you make such a to-do over a ball, Strephon, whatever would you do were I to marry?"

Strephon was intent on Tavington's side-curls, and answered, "I'd do my best, Colonel. We servants got to have our pride too."

They lounged about the edges of the dancers, admiring a pretty face here, and decrying a pompous bore there. Bordon was obviously trying to memorise the dresses and ornaments of the ladies, in order to deliver a full report to Polly. Tavington was briefly distracted by one young woman with a fine pair of dark eyes, when he heard a new arrival announced.

"His Royal Highness, the Duke of Clarence!"

Tavington experienced a moment of surprise, and then remembered something being said about one of the King's sons being in New York. This was the one in the Navy, said to be a better sort than some of his layabout brothers. Tavington looked him over. _Why, he's nothing but a boy!_ Then he rebuked himself. The young prince must be sixteen or seventeen; no younger than Tavington himself when he had first joined the army. He had heard that the Duke had seen action with Admiral Rodney in the action off Cape St. Vincent; so he, at least, knew what it was to risk his life for King (_his own father!)_ and Country.

He pointed the prince out to Bordon, and then they had gone to look at the card players. Look at, only; for Tavington had no intention of risking a penny at this point. The gamesters were indeed playing high, and after awhile, the two of them strolled off to admire the ladies again. There was a mad air of gaiety about the place; a sort of _carpe diem!_ (_or noctem_, corrected Tavington) in the fevered looks of the dancers; a desperate drive to prove to themselves and others that all cares were forgotten, all worries suspended in honour of the festivities.

Tavington saw Cornwallis across the room, talking with measured benevolence to some of his cronies. He wondered what his general's plans were; how he would console himself for his paradise lost in Ohio. _At least he has a home to return to_, thought Tavington. _That's more than many here can claim. _O'Hara was nearby—O'Hara, whose son lay in an unmarked grave in North Carolina, and all, it now seemed, for nothing.

He took a sip of wine, and suddenly heard a loud voice in his ear.

"Will you not introduce me to this gentleman, Morris?"

Tavington turned, and found himself being stared at by the rather pop-eyed but well meaning young Duke of Clarence. Tavington was presented to him, and found that the young prince knew quite a bit about him already.

"Surely you're not surprised, Colonel? All the papers were full of you: dashing about here, there, and everywhere---putting the fear of God in the damned rebels! I can still say that, can I not?" he appealed to his escort. "I can still call them rebels?"

Tavington smiled, "Your Royal Highness, I think _you_ can call them anything you like."

The young Duke burst out laughing. "Right you are, Colonel! No rebels about tonight! We're all friends here, and no one to give a fig what the rebels think!" He saw Bordon nearby, and asked, "Is this your friend, sir? Would you not make him known to me?"

"Sir, allow me to present my good friend Captain Bordon. We served in the British Legion together."

"Another damned fine fellow! Were you wounded, too?"

"Indeed I was, your Royal Highness."

The Duke looked at Bordon so owlishly that Tavington became a little alarmed, wondering if the Duke would actually demand a public display of said wounds, but he was relieved when the Duke spoke again.

"You're as fine a pair of fellows as ever I saw! Prodigious fine fellows!" 

__

How much wine has he had?

The Duke was not yet tired of his new acquaintances. "So, Colonel, what next for you and your friend here? Are you returning with the fleet on the 20th?

"No sir," replied Tavington, "I am remaining here with the Legion---"

"Staying true to your men." The Duke became misty-eyed. "Damned good of you. Sticking with the army, then?"

"No, sir." The Duke's eyebrows rose precipitously. Tavington explained, "I was hoping for a land grant from the Crown."

"Want to be a farmer, do you, Colonel? I expected you'd be the sort to stay with the army to the bitter end."

"Actually, sir, even the Romans thought twenty years of service enough."

"And now you want to retire to your farm, in the old Roman way." The Duke was enraptured at the idea. "So where is it?"

Tavington said uneasily, "Sir, I don't know. We shall all have to wait and see---"

"Nonsense!" shouted the Duke, outraged. "Damned nonsense! A pair of prodigious fine fellows like the two of you! Wounded in the wars! It's a scandal! 'Begrudging Belisarius an obol!'" The Duke's voice had risen to such a pitch that Cornwallis and his friends, and even some of the dancers, were looking on with interest. Tavington felt his face growing hot.

The Duke's companions whispered in his ear, and he calmed down a little. "Damned nonsense, anyway," he muttered. He nodded to Tavington, then to Bordon. "An honour to meet you, Colonel Tavington, and you too, Captain. You'll find that Britannia is not an ungrateful mistress!" He stalked away, leaving a relieved Tavington in his wake. He and Bordon exchanged carefully neutral looks, though each knew the other's thought.

Bordon said, "It is getting late. I must go home to Polly and see how she is."

"Oh, indeed," smirked Tavington. "You mean you cannot wait to tell her about being put on public display tonight."

Bordon attempted gravity, but allowed himself a discreet smile. "No, I cannot wait. When you are married, you will find that you will not want to wait, either."

"I'll stay a little longer," said Tavington. "I don't want everyone here to imagine that I'm slinking away because of the Duke's absurd scene. You go on. I shall call in a day or two, and your lady can laugh at me then."

He made a late breakfast the next morning. He had certainly not been drunk the night before, but was a little groggy for all that. Strephon was carefully quiet, and had brushed his hair out gently, doing it up in a plain queue without the usual discussion. Tavington was hardly halfway through his first cup of tea, when the door burst open, and a distraught maidservant rushed at him, agog.

"Sir, sir, you must come at once!"

Tavington rose, alarmed. Visions of Polly Bordon dying in childbed, of a fire, of another military disaster flashed before him. "What is it?" he asked, urgently.

The maid was incoherent. "Oh, you must come, sir!" She actually grabbed his hand, and he was pulled, still holding his teacup, down the hall. Abruptly, the girl stopped, and Tavington cannoned into her. Unheeding, the girl announced, "His Royal Highness the Duke of Clarence!"

"No, I believe that would be me," said the young prince in the entryway. Tavington shut his mouth carefully, hoping he had not gaped too long. The apparition, still in his dress uniform of the night before, radiated cordiality at him. "Well, Colonel, put on your cloak! We're off to those clerks to have them do right by you!' 

The girl ran frantically to fetch Tavington's cloak, but Strephon was coming down the stairs, cloak already in hand. Tavington set down his teacup and flung the cloak around his shoulders, following the Duke out the door to a waiting carriage. To his astonishment, Bordon was inside, a bemused but happy smile on his face.

The office was like an anthill stepped upon by a giant. The officers and clerks there rushed to see the royal personage visiting their domain. The Duke announced that his particular friends, Colonel Tavington and Captain Bordon, required their land grants at once.

"But where, Your Royal Highness?" asked a sensible senior clerk.

"Where was it, Colonel?" asked the Duke.

Tavington paused, at a loss.

"The Annapolis Valley in Nova Scotia," prompted Bordon.

"The Annapolis Valley in Nova Scotia," repeated Tavington.

The Duke beamed. "The Annapolis Valley in Nova Scotia," he informed the clerk.

It all happened with extraordinary speed. Their grants were completed, stamped, and delivered into their hands within the hour, while the Duke condescended to take some refreshment. Tavington and Bordon were given five thousand and two thousand acres respectively, the usual amounts based on rank. Bordon looked over the locations and specifics and seemed satisfied. Tavington felt a little dazed. Everything he had struggled to win for so many long years had suddenly dropped into his hands like a gift from heaven. _So this is what having influence on one's behalf is like._

Before he left, he spoke to the senior clerk about the Legion. The clerk, Samuel Wiles, was patient and reassuring. "No one's being forgotten, sir; everyone will get his share in the end. There are thousands of claims, and we need time to work through them, that's all. The British Legion is on the list, and we have people we will send out who will do the survey and plot out their holdings for them. Never fear. No one will be left behind."

The Duke took them back, at their request, to Bordon's lodgings. They stood outside, as the Duke drove away, and Bordon observed, "One never knows when one will meet a true friend."

"No," agreed Tavington, thinking of Miss Everleigh, and then, with a pang, of Wilkins. "No, indeed."

They went in to find Polly and inform her of their unlooked-for good fortune. She was tolerably composed, having recovered from the shock of a royal duke walking into her bedchamber early that morning, as she lay asleep.

Tavington sat down at their table and stared at his grant for a long minute. Bordon smiled at him ironically, with a lift of his eyebrows. Suddenly, Tavington began to laugh helplessly. Bordon joined in; while Polly, tutting at the absurdity of men, took care that they not set their papers in the jam.

Author's notes: Truth is Stranger than Fiction, Part I; Banastre Tarleton was banned from the surrender festivities just as I show Tavington as having been; and the attempt on his life at the inn is also factual. It was not hard to weave Benjamin Martin into this, even though there were no units of South Carolina militia actually at Yorktown. Thanks to Kontara for reminding me that Ben and the boys are shown there in the film! 

Truth is Stranger than Fiction, Part II: The Duke of Clarence, the future King William IV, was indeed in New York at the time described, and he met and befriended Banastre Tarleton. It was no great leap of imagination to make him Tavington's _deus ex machina _(or fairy godfather, if you prefer).

Belisarius was the great general of Emperor Justinian II. "Grudging Belisarius his obol" is a saying born of a legend that the general ended a beggar due to imperial ingratitude.

Queen's Street is now Pearl Street in Manhattan.

It has been estimated that nearly 100,000 Loyalists left by way of New York, a large percentage of the population at the time (the total population of the thirteen colonies was only about 2.5 million). This number does not include the loyalists from upstate New York and points north, who crossed the border on foot or on horseback into Canada; the southerners who went directly to Florida or the West Indies; or the loyalists who simply moved out to the frontier where no one knew them. There were also many loyalists who were able to hold on and eventually live at peace with their old neighbors under the new government.

And now, dear readers, William Tavington and Banastre Tarleton must shake hands in farewell. Tarleton is embarking with Cornwallis on December 20, 1781, to return to England and take up the spirited and dissipated life of a wealthy Georgian rake. Tavington's further adventures, perforce, will be different, but there are still a few chapters to go.


	27. Chapter TwentySeven: The Legions Depart

_Disclaimer: I do not own the rights to The Patriot, but I have personal experience of winter in the big city. _  
  
**CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN: The Legions Depart**

December 20th came, and with it the departure of the fleet. Tavington pretended that he had better things to do than see his comrades off, but in the end went down to the docks. Bordon came with him, for his friend said that they were living in times of such significance that it would be foolish not to experience the events first hand.

"When you write your memoirs someday, you'll want to be able to give all the details."

"Rubbish, Bordon," Tavington growled. He thought,_ perhaps I could entitle them " With Fire and Sword: Confessions of the Butcher of the_ _Carolinas_." Still, a small seed of possibility was sown.

It was cold, and Tavington pulled his cloak closer. The horses and baggage had been largely loaded the day before. A few of the regular regiments were leaving, but mostly it was officers heading home with the fleet of over 150 ships. His senior captain, Richard Hovenden, was leaving to stay with relatives in Ireland, and Tavington was glad he had come and had had a chance to bid farewell to Hovenden and thank him for his loyalty.

Other carriages were arriving. Cornwallis himself emerged from one large chaise and four. His valets scurried about, and his friends gathered around him. The Lord General seemed sombre, but resigned. This departure must underline the overthrow of all his hopes. He caught sight of Tavington and spoke quietly to the men around him. He walked toward Tavington, who glanced at Bordon, and then went to meet his erstwhile commander.

"So, Colonel Tavington, it seems you are remaining with your men. His Royal Highness was most impressed with you."

Tavington smiled slightly, "I am deeply indebted to the Duke, my lord. But indeed, I must wait for my fiancée, who is joining me here in New York before we depart for Nova Scotia."

Cornwallis smiled faintly in his turn, "You are retiring to your Sabine farm in the old Roman way, I am told."

"It is what I always wanted; and when Miss Wilde arrives, I shall truly be the happiest of men, however hackneyed the phrase."

"I wish you well, Colonel." Cornwallis frowned, thinking. "It was unfortunate that our acquaintance began with a certain degree of misunderstanding. You are a brave man."

"And you, my lord. I am glad we came to know one another better."

Cornwallis gave a grim, quiet laugh and a keen look at Tavington. "Nova Scotia. Well, Colonel, I hope you do not find it dull, after all of your adventures."

"I hope to find it not dull, but peaceful. A novelty for me." Cornwallis snorted, and Tavington asked, "And you, my lord? Where are you going?"

"Home. England—to see my children, and then, wherever the King may send me." Cornwallis offered Tavington his hand, and they shook hands for the first time, in farewell.

Sail after sail was raised, as the great fleet moved out of New York harbour. The iron-grey sky pressed down, and a few flakes of snow appeared.

Bordon murmured, "The legions are departing. The colonies will be left to themselves completely in a year or two."

Tavington shivered. "We'll see how they manage to get on. I cannot in truth say I expect much of them. Without us to hate, they shall probably turn on one another."

Tavington planned to dine with the Bordons on Christmas Day. They had much to celebrate. As a belated wedding present, he had bought them a fine pair of silver candlesticks for their new home, when they should have one.

A thick letter, stained with seawater and worn at the corners, finally arrived the day before Christmas. Tavington opened it carefully with a mixture of joy and apprehension.

_Charlestown__, __December 8, 1781___

_My dearest William,_

_We are coming to you, my dearest, as fast as sail can bring us. I have arranged passage with the captain of the _Halcyone,_ and expect to leave December 21st. It has taken us some time to find a ship. As you can imagine, with all the people leaving __Charlestown__, and with the dangers from the French, the rebel navy, and rebel privateers, finding room on a ship to __New York__ is no light matter._

_Thank you for telling us of the fate of dear Cousin James. It is a sad thing, especially considering the very few days between the event and the surrender. We shall all miss him, and I expect we shall miss his strength and cheerful nature even more in years to come._

_I was so relieved to hear that you, thank God, are safe and well. With all the frightening rumours and terrible news, I was almost in despair, fearing that I had lost you. We, too, are well, and have little to disturb us at Mrs. Rutherford's, except---_

_My love, what am I saying? We have had a veritable earthquake here. You must know, first, that Amelia will not be traveling with us. She is married. It's seems unbelievable I know—to no one more than to me, but so it is. She is married to Mr. McKay. They eloped last week. It was a Sunday, and Mr. McKay called to go walking with her. When she did not come home, I was, as you can guess, in a desperate state, imagining every possible fate for her. The following day she returned with Mr. McKay. They had found someone to marry them, despite her age. Obviously I will not contest it. They seem blissfully happy, and quite unaware of the anguish they have caused. Mrs. __Rutherford__ was all kindness, and allowed him to move into Amelia's room with her. Julia is now with me. I think you can imagine her remarks on these events._

_Despite their heedless joy, they talked with me quite seriously about their prospects. David and Amelia, understandably, wanted her share of our money delivered into their hands, as they do have the sense to appreciate its importance to their future. But there was another thing; and I cannot help feeling renewed anger at my father, however irrational. They knew, of course, about his friendship with Judge Henderson and about the grant in __Kentucky__, for it all came out when I received the Judge's letter. I now would give all I possess for my father never to have met the man. They had said little to me before, but apparently had had a great deal to say when they were alone; for in the course of our conversation, David and Amelia asked me if they could have the grant, and in return, they would renounce all claim to Arcadia and any restitution made for it._

_David intends to resign his commission, and he and Amelia will set out for __Kentucky__ in the spring. It would, obviously, be madness to attempt __Cumberland Gap__ at this time of year. They will hire a boat to take them and their belongings up the coast beyond our lines and leave them there; and then they can make their way unhindered and unsuspected through the country. Their scheme is very detailed, and it was obvious to me that they had been planning this for some time._

_My love, I tried so hard to reason with them—but perhaps you remember what it is to be that age. Nothing I said, no representation of mine could move them. David and Amelia keep repeating that this is their country, and the rebels cannot take it away from them. They will go to __Kentucky__, where no one knows them, and start anew. The disasters of the last few years have, it seems, filled them with distrust for the opinions of their elders. Even when I told them how it would disappoint you if they did not join us, Amelia only wept, and David said I must send his deepest respects; but he would be ashamed to appear before you as a helpless child, expecting you to take care of them. Indeed, he has more pride than sense. I thought it better to submit to their decision than to drive them away with further argument._

_I have gone through what we brought from __Arcadia__, and allowed Amelia to choose what she wants to keep. She will have the wagon and team, of course; and also some of the books and music, the piano, Father's best rifle, and most of the silver. With her share of the money, they have plenty for equipment and supplies, with still sufficient left over to provide an income for them._

_What they are keeping, I have been attempting to replace-- with some success. As you know, many people leaving __Charlestown__ must leave most of their possessions behind, and so I have already found a more than acceptable instrument (forgive me, it means so much to me), and have supplemented the remaining library. I daresay we shall need to discuss our own situation when I arrive and understand more of our plans._

_Our maid, Chloe, will be coming with Julia and me. I remembered that you did not wish to own slaves, so I engaged a free woman of colour. She is a very good girl, and very much afraid that her manumission will be disregarded and she herself sold into slavery again, and so is eager to go north with us._

_I long so to see you, yet it gives me such pain to bid farewell to Amelia; a farewell forever, it seems likely. I am half distracted, and Julia goes about in a fury. She is terribly angry with Amelia and has called her a deserter. It is all I can do to keep the peace between them. And then at night, Julia cannot stop weeping at the thought of parting for all time from Amelia, and I am no help, for it makes me weep as well._

_Only you, my dearest, can mitigate this wretchedness. I fix my hopes on the future, when we are together, and these sorrows have lost their present sting. Think of me as I think of you, and feel my kiss in the darkness as you fall asleep._

_Your__ loving_

_Elizabeth___

Shocked and grieved, Tavington opened the second letter in the packet. It was from Julia, and was entirely different from her sister's.

_Dearest Colonel Tavington,_

_I expect you have read Lilabet's letter first, so you know that Melly has gone mad with That Boy and has married him and is now going to run away with him. Only not run away, because she is staying in __Charlestown__ for awhile until they go to __Kentucky__. I knew he was going to cause trouble. For months now, Melly and he would sit and look at each other and never talk or hear anything anyone said. That Boy pretends to be our friend, but he and Melly act as if no one else in the world is real._

_I asked her how she could desert us, and she got angry and said that I was too young to understand a woman's feelings, and that when I was older I would understand that only the man you love matters. I told her that it was a good thing for us that Lilabet did not think like that, or she would have ridden away with you and left us in Camden to be trampled upon by that horrid brother of Cousin Charlotte's and his even more horrid wife. I thought it was a very good answer, but then Melly said something about Lilabet that really made me angry, and Lilabet had to send me to my room._

_Lilabet__ told me that this is happening everywhere—not just here in __Charlestown__, but all over the Colonies. Families are breaking up because of the war and politics and other horrid things. I am not leaving Lilabet, NOT EVER, and I think Melly has lost her mind._

_She and That Boy hardly ever talk to us. They sit downstairs and look at each other during meals, but otherwise when he is here they spend all their time in their room alone together and Lilabet will not allow me to bother them. I think it would be dull to spend all my time in a room alone with a boy._

_Lilabet__ says That Boy is our brother now, but I don't think so. You are my real brother and I shall feel better when I see you. I think it will be interesting to sail in the ship._

_Lilabet__ says I am underlining too many words, which means I am discomposed. I am very discomposed._

_I now close with my heart-felt wishes for your continued good health._

_Your obedient servant,_

_Julia Wilde_

Tavington read and re-read the letters several times. Concerned as he was for Elizabeth and Julia, he felt less surprise the more he reflected on the situation. Both Amelia and McKay were just at the age when young people wanted to prove their independence. With the chaos about them, there was not the usual social structure to help control their behaviour. They had plainly lost their heads over each other, but Tavington had seen that from the first. Probably the threat of separation had panicked them, and Tavington could sympathise somewhat with that.

When Elizabeth and Julia arrived, he would discuss the situation with them. Perhaps he could write McKay, explain about the Nova Scotia grant, and offer to share it with him and Amelia. Five thousand acres were more than he could ever use or need. The marriage was precipitous, true, but not the disaster that Elizabeth and Julia seemed to think it. McKay was an intelligent and resourceful young man, and Amelia had her money. If he could but persuade the happy young couple to join them, all might yet be well.

He laughed a little at Julia's innocent observations on the potential for boredom when alone with a male. He wondered briefly what she would make of marriage between Elizabeth and himself.

Then he looked at the sailing date again. December 21st! They could arrive any day now! They could arrive today! He went to find the landlady, to apprise her of her new tenants, and to inform her that there would be a maidservant needing accommodation as well. He then went back up to his rooms, taking in their shabbiness a little wistfully. It was certainly not what he would have chosen for his first home with Elizabeth. There was a small sitting room, a smaller bedroom for the two of them, and a little closet of a room for Julia. At least she would not have to share it, now.

He called for Strephon, and they set about organising his belongings. Once some of the trunks and crates were moved, there was room to set up the girls' pianoforte, which should please them. He looked out the window. Heavy, soft snow was falling, concealing the usual morass of mud and horse droppings that were the streets. He was glad of the fire on the small hearth: the damp made his scars ache a little.

Strephon was pottering before the fire, making hot buttered rum for Tavington.

"It'll warm you right up, sir. I reckon you'll feel better when the ladies get here."

"Yes, I will." Tavington reached into his waistcoat pocket. "A little Christmas present, Strephon," he said, handing his valet twelve shillings.

"Thank you, sir!" Strephon was still hovering, and Tavington waved him away.

"Go out, amuse yourself, get drunk if you like." Tavington settled down on the sofa in front of the fire, sipping judiciously at the hot drink. It was as good as Strephon had promised.

Strephon smiled. "Merry Christmas, Colonel."

"Merry Christmas, Strephon."

The ladies did not come that day, nor the next.

Tavington had a pleasant Christmas dinner with the Bordon's; aside from his underlying fear that Elizabeth and Julia would arrive while he was gone, and be turned away by his imbecile of a landlady. Bordon and Polly adored the candlesticks, and Polly set the table with them at once, moving with the ponderous caution of a woman in the last stages of pregnancy. Bordon watched her fondly, a doting smile on his face. Tavington could not hide his amusement, and Bordon saw it and gave an unembarrassed shrug.

The goose was consumed, the pudding polished off, and Tavington soon took his leave. He walked back through the snowy streets, his mood darkening, thinking of the Christmas before: a mild South Carolina winter, a crowd of friendly family faces about him in Miss Everleigh's dining parlour--a place he would never see again. Miss Everleigh herself was gone; so was the loyal and brave Wilkins. The Montgomery family might as well be on the Moon, so miniscule was the chance of ever seeing any of them again; and now, Amelia and McKay had deserted them. _How could they hurt __Elizabeth__ so? _Not even the blindness of youthful passion could excuse them. Had they written him, he could have arranged it all: McKay would have been transferred back to his command, and could have escorted the ladies to New York. Instead, Elizabeth and Julia must travel alone and unprotected, grieving over a sister who did not seem to be grieving much over them.

He would salvage what he could. First, he must see to Elizabeth, and make Julia feel welcome in their family circle. The picture of McKay and Amelia, oblivious to the feelings and existence of everyone around them, was a healthy warning about how not to conduct his own marriage. No, Julia would truly be part of their family, as much as if she were their child. In a way, she was.

But Elizabeth must come first. She had sacrificed so much, and not just since he had met her. Reading between the lines, it had become apparent to him that she had always been expected to give up everything for her family. From her status as a useful governess, housekeeper, and her mother's deputy and companion, Tavington inferred that her family would have found it most convenient that she never marry. Only her brother's death had changed that, and then an arranged marriage had been nearly thrust upon her. Her father's hare-brained idea to pair her off with Martin he discounted as one man offering a trifling gift to a good friend, and plainly the mother would have had none of it. Instead, Elizabeth had cared tenderly for her sisters, protecting and educating them, and then had had the bitter reward of Amelia's elopement.

_Only let her come soon, and I shall change it all for her. I know her true worth, and I shall show her how well I know it._

Days passed, and Tavington endured his daily rounds: inspecting the Legion, completing the endless paperwork, hurrying back to his lodgings to find that Elizabeth and Julia still had not come. He went down to the docks, asking for any news of the _Halcyone_. There was none, but the usual nerve-wracking rumours of rebel attacks and privateer depredations made him feel rather sick. In the meantime, he prepared for their arrival as completely as he could. The banns for their wedding were already published, and he had arranged with the rector of Trinity Church for their vows. Trinity Church itself, alas, had burned to the ground during the disturbances in the city a few years ago, but the congregation was still meeting at St. Paul's Chapel, and Tavington suspected that Elizabeth would prefer the reverend Mr. Inglis' services to those of a public or military official

The weather turned from snowy to bitterly cold. On New Year's Eve, Tavington rode out on Aeolus to visit headquarters for a meeting of regimental commanders. His horses seemed to be doing well in the stable down the street from his lodgings. Candace had been in season a few times since coming into Tavington's possession, but he did not wish to breed her to Aeolus until Elizabeth had a chance to make friends with her and ride her. He had had some very nice tack made for the mare, and looked forward to showing Elizabeth New York from horseback. He had purchased a sweet-tempered grey pony that seemed designed for Julia. He smiled. _What good times we shall have_. With another look at the sky, he decided that might wait until it was not so very cold.

The meeting was long and dull, enlivened only at the end when Sir Henry had a bowl of hot punch brought in for them to drink to the New Year. It was not the most cheerful of thoughts, since as they waited for the peace terms to be decided, it was entirely possible that the new year might see them leaving the colonies forever. Still, the punch was hot, strong, and good, and it somewhat improved Tavington's outlook as he rode back to Queen's Street. It was late afternoon, and already growing dark.

About three streets away from the stable, he noticed a group of civilians and soldiers assembled. They were loudly exclaiming over something, and as Tavington approached, he overheard them.

"It finally broke up off Montauk Point."

"The shelling had reduced it to splinters. No wonder everyone aboard was lost."

"Terrible. Those poor souls."

Tavington thought his heart would explode. He called out, "What ship was it? Was it the _Halcyone_?"

An infantry lieutenant looked his way. "We're not sure of the name, sir. It might have been called the _Halcyone_."

An elderly civilian put in. "It was too badly damaged to tell yet. It could have been the _Erebus_. That was due from Kingston a week ago." Seeing Tavington's distress, the old man added. "They're out salvaging the wreckage, sir. There should be some news at the docks by tomorrow. No use borrowing trouble yet."

Tavington gave the man a nod, unable to speak. Like an automaton, he sat on Aeolus, letting his horse find his way back to his stable and his companions there. Tavington spoke the bare minimum necessary to the grooms, and walked quickly back to his lodgings.

Blindly, he ignored the unusual commotion in the street in front of his building. Pushing past some teamsters unloading a wagon, he ran up the stairs, hoping to be alone with his terrible thoughts at once.

He could hear Strephon's deep voice in conversation. And then, suddenly, a familiar, high, sweet one.

"I think it looks beautiful there. Should we put the books away now, Lilabet?"

He took the last few steps two at a time, and was at his doorway in an instant. There was a pianoforte in his sitting room. Elizabeth was in his sitting room and was talking with Strephon. Julia, in a hooded red travelling cloak, was flitting about the room, looking at everything.

He paused, and Elizabeth turned and saw him.

"My dearest!" she cried, and was in his arms. It occurred briefly to Tavington that he might be hurting her, holding her so tightly; but he could not let go. He could feel her bones through her dark cloak. She was thinner than he remembered, and he held her away from him a moment to look at her. Her face was as sweet as ever, but perhaps a little too pale. He embraced her again. Julia was at their side, and he pulled her close as well. Both his girls were too pale.

Elizabeth's hands had slid underneath his cloak, and stroked his back tenderly. He was hardly aware of Strephon, smiling kindly, and a young woman, standing modestly in a corner. He would allow himself a kiss, caring nothing for the servants. He then looked down at Julia's thin little face, and kissed the top of her head.

He tried to speak rationally. "Have you been here long? When did you arrive?"

Elizabeth smiled, still clinging to him. "Not long. The ship came into harbour a few hours ago, and it took some time to disembark and find some teamsters to bring us here with all our impedimenta." She laughed. "You can see why."

Tavington glanced around the room. Besides the pianoforte, there were some trunks, some crates; one of which was opened and overflowing with books. There were two flattish crates, which might contain paintings. It would take some time to put it all to rights.

His landlady, Mrs. Briggs, came puffing into the room.

"Well, ma'am," she said, "it won't be easy, but you shall have your bath within the hour. Good evening to you, Colonel. I can see you're glad to have your lady here at last." She gave the maidservant a sharp look, and said, "There's a cot in the little room down the hall for the black girl. I've nowhere else to put her."

"Thank you, Mrs. Briggs," said Tavington. "Is there somewhere I can sleep tonight? It is too late in the day for our wedding."

"I'll have Sukie make up a bed for you in my parlour. It won't be very comfortable, but it's only for the one night." She simpered, and gave Elizabeth a sly look. Elizabeth stiffened, and returned the look haughtily. Mrs. Briggs was already hurrying away, saying "I'll have dinner brought up directly. I'm sure you'll all be glad of it." The teamsters came up with the last of the crates, and Tavington paid them off generously.

Tavington and Elizabeth looked at each other in silence for a moment. "Well," said Elizabeth, finally. "Here we are." She gestured to her maid. 'Chloe, come and meet the Colonel. Dearest," she said to Tavington. "This is our maidservant Chloe, who has braved our adventures with us."

Chloe was a tiny thing, with a face almost entirely hidden by the wide brim of her muslin cap. She made a deep curtsey to Tavington. "Colonel, sir," she whispered, her gaze fixed on the floor. Tavington could make out her colour only from her hands and wrists, which were a light brown—more weak tea than strong coffee. Strephon was looking at her with interest, but the girl would not look back at him.

"Julia," said Elizabeth, "Go down the hall with Chloe and have a look at this 'little room' of Mrs. Briggs'. See if the bedding is sufficient. We might as well start getting settled. Strephon, please carry Chloe's trunk for her."

"Yes, ma'am," said Strephon, agreeably, hoisting the small trunk up and following the two girls down the hall.

"Alone at last," murmured Tavington, drawing his love close for a proper kiss. It had been so long since they had seen each other, that they were both a little shy. Soon, however, they remembered the taste and feel of the other. Elizabeth looked up at him, eyes shining.

"I thought we would never get here."

"I thought you wouldn't, either."

"The winds were contrary, and twice the crew sighted enemy sails. We spent quite some time running and hiding. Not very pleasant. I'm surprised, now, that my father could bear to cross the Atlantic as often as he did."

"But you are here now, and safe." He kissed her again, lightly. "And we shall be married tomorrow."

Julia came back, followed by Strephon. "It's a broom closet," declared Julia with scorn.

"It's –"

"It's a broom closet," she repeated. "It has a little cot with the most threadbare blanket you ever saw."

"Then get her some sheets and a decent quilt out of the linen chest. Is there a window?"

"Yes, and that won't make her any warmer." Julia opened a large trunk and began rummaging through an assortment of bed linens.

Tavington smiled. "You should have no difficulty with the sheets, since I have it on good authority that you made enough for the entire British Legion."

Julia, kneeling on the floor, looked around at him and laughed.

Elizabeth smiled. "Perhaps not the entire Legion. Only enough for the officers."

Strephon was taking the pile of bedding from Julia, when Tavington said, "Strephon, after you give the maid the linens, I need you to take a message to Mr. Inglis at St. Paul's Chapel." Strephon straightened, listening. "Tell him we'll be there at ten o'clock tomorrow morning. If there is some difficulty, have him set a time at his convenience. Then go tell Captain Bordon of our plans."

"Yes, sir."

Strephon set off on his errands, and Elizabeth said, "He seems a very satisfactory servant."

"Entirely. A lucky find."

"So is Chloe," pronounced Julia. "She know how to comb hair without pulling it out, and she doesn't complain, not even about the food on the ship." She took off her red cloak, and found a hook by the door to hang it from. She shivered, and asked. "Is it always this cold in New York?"

Tavington smiled ruefully. "Only in the winter."

"Well, go find a shawl to put on, Julia," said Elizabeth, taking off her travelling cloak as well. She was wearing a green Brunswick with a darker green quilted petticoat. Mrs. Briggs' servant, Sukie, came in with a steaming tray. She arranged it all on the table by the window, and was out the door without a word, and with the barest sketch of a curtsey. Elizabeth raised her brows.

"New York manners," smiled Tavington, hanging his cloak by Elizabeth's. "One becomes accustomed to them."

Elizabeth looked skeptical, but they all sat down to dinner at last. Mrs. Briggs' food was indifferent in quality, but hot and filling, and they were too happy to notice what they were eating, anyway. Tavington opened a bottle of wine, and Julia was permitted one glass.

"I'll be twelve in March!" she pointed out.

"Exactly so," agreed her sister. "Now, William," she began, "have you any idea where we shall be going? We have made a thousand guesses, from England to Canada to Timbuktu, but we hoped you would know more by now."

Tavington had rarely been happier, preparing to tell his little family the news. He decided to make a story of it, from the ball ('You should have danced," complained Julia.), to the Duke of Clarence ("A prince! Was he handsome?" "Not very." "Too bad."), to Britannia not being an ungrateful mistress (Elizabeth was amused, but Julia nodded in sage agreement), to the prince appearing right here at the lodgings the next day, and sweeping Tavington off in his coach to get his land grant.

"Nova Scotia?" asked Julia when he finished. "Where is that?"

"We'll look in the atlas after dinner, darling," said Elizabeth, "and you will see for yourself."

Julia was resigned. "I suppose this means another sea voyage."

Tavington smiled, "Indeed it does. Did you not find sailing as interesting as you had hoped?"

"Oh, it was interesting." Julia looked glumly at her plate. "That doesn't mean it was pleasant."

"One person's adventure is another's disagreeable experience," teased Elizabeth.

Julia agreed, serious. "It's just as Dr. Johnson said. Sailing is 'like jail, with the chance of being drowned.'"

Tavington laughed, and hugged her with his free arm. As they finished dinner, Sukie and Mrs. Briggs' beefy-armed daughter came in with the sloshing bathtub. Chloe was behind them, with some extra hot water. Tavington went to the bedroom, to collect the toilet items and linen he would need for the next day, along with a paper-wrapped package; and then bade Elizabeth and Julia a brief but tender good night. Tomorrow could not come too soon. It only occurred to him, as he was falling into a restless sleep on the narrow sofa in the parlour, that neither Elizabeth nor Julia had said one word of their absent sister.

---

Author's notes: Bordon's remarks about the legions departing refers to Rome, at the end of the 4th century AD, permanently withdrawing its garrison from Britain due to military needs elsewhere in the Roman Empire. Roman Britain, terrified and desperate, was left to fend for itself, and gradually became the prey of barbarian invaders.

A Brunswick was a long-sleeved, three-quarter length jacket, sometimes hooded, sometimes (as in Elizabeth's jacket) not. I should mention now that petticoat in this context means skirt. Petticoats did not become strictly undergarments until the end of the century.

And yes, the bathwater had to be shared. First Julia, then Elizabeth, and then Chloe.

All my readers are invited to the wedding of Colonel William Tavington and Miss Elizabeth Wilde, to be held in the next chapter. No presents are necessary, but you should dress in your best and be ready for a very good time!


	28. Chapter TwentyEight: Haste to the Weddin...

_Disclaimer: I do not own the rights to The Patriot, but I had a very nice, if unconventional, wedding myself. _

Author's note: I have sliced, diced, cut, and edited, but there is still material in the second half of this chapter that may be considered R-rated. Let all those innocent young people who might be corrupted by a married couple making love kindly avert their eyes.

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT: Haste to the Wedding 

Tavington indulged Strephon's fussing the next morning, grumbling as his servant informed him that Mr. Inglis had named eleven o'clock as the time of the wedding. With plenty of time to prepare, he had decided to wear the cravat Amelia had given him. Her sisters might be very disappointed in her, but she still must be remembered. He could hear the rest of the house stirring. His breakfast was served in the parlour, and he carefully kept out of the ladies' way until they were all to meet at half past ten. He had told Strephon to go to the livery stable to bespeak a carriage, but was further informed that that Captain Bordon was taking care of that, and would come to meet them here at the time appointed. 

"That's very good of him." Tavington was pleased. Riding in the carriage, however briefly, would give Elizabeth and Julia time to become reacquainted with Bordon. He was to be their neighbor, and Tavington wanted them to be good friends.

Bordon arrived punctually, spruce and smiling. He eyed Tavington's appearance with approval, and they awaited the ladies in the parlour. Julia ran down the stairs, eager to be off. She was dressed in a charming pink gown, covered by a dress cloak of silver-grey velvet. 

"Good morning!" she greeted them, with an elaborate curtsey. "Hello, Captain Bordon! Happy New Year! It's so nice to see you again!"

Elizabeth was descending the narrow stairs more carefully, and Tavington's heart swelled at the sight of her. She could not have been lovelier. Wearing her green gown, and wrapped in a splendid fur-trimmed cloak, she was alight with happiness. Tavington took note of the famous petticoat. It was remarkably beautiful: a delicate shade of creamy yellow, and wonderfully embroidered with flowers that recalled her father's horticultural paintings. Her hair was dressed fashionably high, with two long dark curls falling softly to one shoulder. Bordon approached her and bowed, reminding her of their acquaintance.

"Captain Bordon! Yes, of course, I remember you! This is very pleasant!" She curtseyed, "How delightful to see you well. We were quite concerned."

"Yes," Tavington told her, "He is well, married, and very soon to be a father." 

"I hope," said Elizabeth, "that I may be introduced to Mrs. Bordon as soon as she is able to entertain visitors."

Julia confided to Bordon, "We don't know _anyone_ in New York but Green Dragoons."

Bordon smiled. "Mrs. Bordon would be very glad of your company. She doesn't know anyone here either."

"Mrs. Bordon is not from New York?"

"No, she is originally from Virginia."

"Oh," said Elizabeth, with a gleam of satisfaction, "a _Southerner."_

Bordon gave Tavington an uneasy glance, but Tavington did not respond. He had told Polly that he would not prevent her making a new start, and he intended to keep his word. Whatever the war had made her, she could assume a lady's manners when in a lady's company, and she need not fear him telling her secrets.

He had one thing to do before they left for the church. He handed the package on the parlour table to Elizabeth with a smile. "Cold as it is, I thought you would be glad of these. The larger one is yours, and the smaller for Julia."

The girls exclaimed over the contents, for inside were two luxurious fur muffs, lined with silk. Julia hung hers from her wrist by the braided silk cord, stroking the marten's softness. "What good ideas you have about presents!"

"Indeed, yes. Thank you, dearest." Elizabeth slid her hands into the warmth of the muff, and gave him a special smile.

The streets made walking a hazard, and Tavington lifted both of his ladies into the carriage to prevent them fouling their skirts.

Once in the carriage, Julia's face clouded and Tavington feared tears would follow

"What is it, my dear?" he asked. "Is it Amelia?"

"No!" muttered Julia, "Stupid Melly!"

"Julia, don't," said Elizabeth wearily. 

"I'm sorry, Colonel," Julia was contrite. "I try not to think about her at all. She makes me so sad and so angry. I was thinking about Cousin James. If he were here, he could have given Lilabet away." She told Bordon, "The war has thinned out our family pretty well."

Elizabeth sighed, and Tavington put his arm around her.

Bordon was understanding. "Today, Miss Julia, begins the New Year, and is the day your family begins to rebuild itself." 

She smiled, and patted his hand. "Tell me about Nova Scotia, please."

"Well," he began, "the first inhabitants were the MicMac Indians." Julia giggled at the name. "Then it was settled by the French, and then it was won by the English, who expelled most of the French back in 1755."

"Is Nova Scotia an Indian name?"

"No, Latin." Bordon explained, "It means New Scotland."

Julia was puzzled. "Why would the French name a place New Scotland?"

Bordon laughed. "That is not the name the French gave it. They called it Acadia."

__

"Arcadia!" Julia's eyes were as big as saucers. Tavington was amused. Elizabeth was silent.

"Acadia," Bordon corrected, "No 'R.'"

"Still," Julia frowned thoughtfully, and glanced at her sister. "Still, it's quite a coincidence."

They soon arrived at their destination, and Tavington helped the ladies out onto the steps of the beautiful little church, with its columns and classical pediment. 

The rector, Charles Inglis, met them at the door, smiling as he was introduced. Tavington wondered why they were still outside, but was distracted by Mr. Inglis' question to Elizabeth.

"And have you your certificate of the banns, Miss Wilde?"

Tavington had time for only a brief thrill of panic, before Elizabeth pulled a folded paper from her pocket, and handed it to the rector. "Here, sir, from St. Phillip's in Charleston."

Inglis looked it over. "Then everything is in order." He led them into the church, and Tavington was stunned, as he saw that instead of an empty sanctuary, the pews were filled with soldiers. His soldiers. They all rose to their feet to greet Tavington and his bride.

He walked down the aisle with Elizabeth under the eyes of men he knew like no others. He walked past Baird and Lovins, the kindly Sergeant Davies, and Fergus McDonald, grinning like the irrepressible ruffian he was. To the front were his officers. There were some women, too. Mrs. Inglis was there, in the rector's pew; but for the most part he suspected the women he saw with his soldiers were not the kind who ordinarily would be attending a church service. Most of the Legion's wives were still in South Carolina, not yet having been transported to New York. Still, as long as the women behaved themselves, he was willing to show charity to all the world today.

At the front of the church there was a brief conference. David Kinlock stepped forward.

"Sir," he said, "we knew you would wish Captain Bordon to stand up with you at your wedding; so thought we could help by providing one of our number to give the bride away. We settled it in proper military fashion. The honour was awarded to me, as the captain with seniority by commission date. Madam," he continued, to Elizabeth, "We all regret that your brave cousin, Captain Wilkins, cannot be here for this happy day. Would you permit me the honour of representing him?"

Elizabeth was touched. "Indeed sir, I am honoured by your thoughtfulness."

Mr. Inglis then took his place and began the service. 

"Dearly Beloved, we are gathered here in the sight of God…."

Tavington's head was whirling with the intensity of emotion. He felt so much, he could hardly think, and feared he would remember the time only in flashes. He heard Charles Inglis' sonorous voice reading the service impressively. He could feel Elizabeth's hand in his as they repeated their vows.

The time came for him to produce the ring, and he fumbled a little pulling it from his pocket. Laying it on the clerk's book, he then followed Mr. Inglis' promptings to take Elizabeth's left hand and then place the splendid emerald ring of the Everleighs on his beloved's third finger, repeating the phrases: "With this ring I thee wed, with my body I thee worship, and with all my worldly goods I thee endow." The full import of the words swept over him, and he flushed, glad no one but the minister could see his face, and glad when he could kneel and hide it even from the kindly Inglis.

Inglis finished with a brief and moving sermon on the holiness of marriage. Tailoring his words to the men before him, he spoke of the difficulties of separation, the certain joys of reunion, and the hope they all had of living in peace with their loved ones. Tavington, his back to the congregation, could hear the snifflings and the throat clearings, and knew that not all who were touched were women.

At last it was over; but it was not entirely over. Apparently, he and Elizabeth and everyone else were going to the inn two streets south for a wedding dinner. His officers had decided it was the perfect occasion for the British Legion to celebrate itself and honour its leader. Back in the carriage, he stared at Bordon, who smiled mischievously, pleased with the success of his conspiracy. 

The inn's ballroom was luckily capacious, and a dinner of great plenty and seemingly innumerable courses was served. There were toasts—a great number of toasts. There was a splendid wedding cake on display. He asked Bordon how _that_ had been managed, and his friend shrugged.

"It was made a few days ago. I had to make an educated guess as to when your lady would arrive. As it happened, I was not so far off."

There were musicians. Clearing a space, a number of dragoons who had immigrated from Scotland years before entertained them all with a sword dance. Tavington felt some apprehension, knowing how much the fellows had drunk. The tallest of them, Rory Fraser, seemed barely able to walk, but somehow completed the dance with no injury to himself or others. At the close, the dancers linked arms, the stumbling Fraser in the middle, and came forward to make their duty to Elizabeth and Julia.

"Ladies, your sairvant!" they bawled out, with a sweeping, unison bow so low that Fraser's head unhappily cracked against the floor. Elizabeth hid her mirth with difficulty. Julia did not even try and laughed aloud. The dancers, taking it as their due, bowed again and smugly sat down for more toasts.

More space was cleared, and the musicians retuned their instruments. With a bow to Tavington and Elizabeth, the lead fiddler began the slow strains of a minuet. Tavington gave Elizabeth his hand, and led her out. As custom demanded, they performed the dance alone, watched by the company assembled. 

He had always wished to dance with Elizabeth, and now he was rewarded. It was an intense experience, for the dance demanded that they maintain eye contact throughout. He was peripherally aware of other people, and saw Julia's pretty pink gown from corner of his eye. Otherwise, he was completely engrossed in Elizabeth. How happy she looked, and, he was proud to see, how well she danced. The minuet ended, with he and Elizabeth giving one another the concluding honours, and the Legion was loud in its approval.

Elizabeth gave him a mischievous smile. It was not the most refined of company, but no one could fault its conviviality. The musicians struck up "Haste to the Wedding," and Tavington and Elizabeth took their places at the top of the set, as others lined up to join them. Julia, flushed with excitement, had been asked to dance by the kind-hearted Bordon, and was overjoyed. 

So they danced; and then they danced some more. No woman present need sit for lack of a partner. A portion of the wedding cake was wrapped up at Elizabeth's insistence for Mrs. Bordon; the rest was devoured. 

Tavington had finished a reel with Julia, to her great satisfaction, when he saw Elizabeth in conversation with some of his dragoons, including Fergus McDonald. Wary of how they might conduct themselves towards his lady, he made his way over to them, and Elizabeth said, "Mr. McDonald was just about to recite a poem for me, dearest."

Tavington looked at McDonald narrowly, knowing the sort of rhymes and songs McDonald was renowned for. If anything even suggesting rudeness was voiced, Tavington had his sword at his side, and McDonald would not live to finish his "poem." McDonald, red-faced, squeezed his eyes shut in concentration, and then uttered:

__

"Daffy-down-dilly is new come to town,

In a yellow petticoat, and a green gown."

A guileless, gap-toothed smile completed the recitation.

Tavington let out a relieved breath, and Elizabeth, smiling, said, "What a pretty thing to say, Mr. McDonald. I thank you." Tavington gave McDonald another suspicious glance, and led his new wife away.

Too exhilarated to feel tired, they at last took their leave, climbed into the waiting carriage, and headed back to their lodgings in the gathering dark. 

Tavington was happy enough to tolerate the effusive congratulations of Mrs. Briggs and her household. More pleasing were the kind greetings of Strephon and Chloe. He had his valet undo his hair, and then sent him off with his cloak to brush, some money as a present for the wedding day, and assurances that he could manage to undress himself.

Julia was clearly over-excited, and Elizabeth and Chloe took her off to her little room, to put her to bed. She broke away briefly and ran over to kiss Tavington good night. Laughing, he kissed her back.

She danced all the way to her room. "Good night! Good night! I can't wait to write Melly! She missed the best party in the world! She didn't get to be a bridesmaid! She didn't even have any wedding cake!" Her door shut, and Tavington sat down in front of the fire. In a little while, Elizabeth and Chloe emerged. Elizabeth gave Tavington a soft kiss on his brow, on her way to their bedchamber.

Tavington sat staring into the fire. So full of his own happiness that he had no need for thought of it, he tilted his head back on the sofa, and savoured his feelings. Time passed, and Chloe came out of the bedchamber, curtseyed to him with an inaudible good night, and exited the room. Tavington could hear her soft footsteps going down the hall.

Getting up, he paused before the closed door, and then, without knocking, entered. Elizabeth was sitting at the little dressing table, dressed in a white muslin nightrobe, an ornate silver brush in her hand. She was not brushing her hair, but instead, staring rather anxiously into the mirror, when she heard Tavington come in. She immediately turned with a shy smile.

She seemed the sweetest sight in the world to him. "You look very beautiful," he said quietly. 

She set the brush down, and Tavington could see her swallow as she stared blindly at it. "Really?"

He sat beside her on the bench. "Yes, really." He picked up the brush, and began running it through her thick dark curls. "What did you think I would say—that I seem to have made a terrible mistake?"

Slowly, she said, "We have apart for so long--nearly a year. It has not been a good year for me. I saw myself becoming thinner and paler than ever, and I feared more than anything that when you first set eyes on me again, you would be disappointed." She took a breath, and seemed near tears. "If I had seen disappointment on your face, I would have wanted to die."

He brushed her hair back from her brow, with a slow, gentle rhythm. "Well, you are here, and I am not disappointed. I am very happy that you still would want me after so long, and," he hesitated, and then decided to say it, "and after having received a better offer."

"Julia. Julia told you about Stephen DeLancey."

"Yes, she has been a very enlightening correspondent. You told me little of your troubles, and Amelia sent me riddles. Julia simply described."

Her eyes shut, and she arched her neck slightly, obviously enjoying his attentions. "I suppose that, had I found myself in Charlestown after losing Arcadia, with two sisters to care for, I might have accepted Stephen had I never met you." She gave a soft sigh of pleasure, as he began brushing her hair up from the nape of her neck. "But I did meet you, and was enamoured from the first with you in a way I had never experienced. I scolded myself for a fool when we first arrived in Camden: dreaming about a man I was sure I would never see again. You cannot imagine how I felt when old Uncle Ganymede told me you were downstairs."

He set down the brush and pulled her closer to him, wrapping his arm around her, pressing her back to his chest. He breathed in the scent of roses, from her temple to the delightful curve where her neck joined her shoulder. He paused, and pressed a slow kiss there. With his free hand, he stroked her arm from shoulder to wrist, lifting the hand to kiss it softly as well. She relaxed, leaning back against him.

"When did you first love me?" she asked.

He slowly kissed her other shoulder, sucking lightly. "I am not sure. Perhaps when I first saw you in your lovely green gown. Perhaps the night of the Camden dinner." He touched her breasts delicately with his fingertips. She started, and he began tracing spirals around them. He whispered in her ear. "But I know when I first wanted you. The day of the skirmish, when I killed the fellow who threatened you. I clasped you in my arms, and wanted to take you then and there, for you were mine." He took her breasts in his hands and squeezed softly. She gave a moaning gasp, and Tavington, seeing her expression of disbelief and delight in the mirror, knew he would forever cherish this moment..

Arching back, she offered her mouth to him, and he captured it lovingly. A long, slow, deep, moist kiss, holding her close in the flickering light. 

When he broke the kiss, he whispered, "Enamoured from the first, were you?"

She temporised, delaying her answer with a light touch of her lips against his. "I had never actually talked about books with a man the way we did that day in the library. It was terribly exciting."

He squeezed again, more firmly, and then began to explore, to stroke, to pinch into attention, to pluck at her until she cried out softly.

"And then you told me that sometimes duty could be a pleasure. And you smiled at me. I wanted to touch you." 

He rose, pulling her to her feet. Still holding a wrist with one hand, he began to undo his jacket buttons. "My sweet love, you may touch me all you like." He smiled at her embarrassment. "You have seen me before, and touched me too."

She whispered, "Not as I would have wished. It was different—you were wounded and ill---I could not----"

He had discarded jacket, waistcoat and cravat, and pressed her hand to his chest. She smiled, feeling his heartbeat. Pulling her close, he unfastened her robe. She looked up at him, wide-eyed.

"Nonetheless," he told her, " you must allow me the same privilege."

The robe rippled to the floor. _She is trying very hard to be brave, poor thing_, he though tenderly, for he could see her resisting the urge to cover herself. He quickly unbuttoned his breeches, and slipped out of the rest of his clothing; then took her hands as they stood before the fire, each looking at the other. She had cast her eyes down modestly, and then looked up quickly, with a blush.

"Perhaps the male body has some mysteries you have not yet fathomed," he purred. He pulled her against him, letting her feel him. She was quite overcome, in a confusion of excitement and nervous laughter. Tavington smiled himself, enjoying her epiphany. Her breathing had quickened; she touched his old scars, and then kissed them every one.

Surprised and stirred, he picked her up and laid her gently on the bed. He leaned over her and gave her a deep, leisurely kiss. She was trembling a little under his hands.

"Sshhh," he soothed her. "It's all right. I love you."

He brushed his fingertips teasingly over her, pausing now and then to kiss a particularly delectable place.

She began shaking, trying to suppress her involuntary cries, and clutched at him, wanting she knew not what.

"William, please---" 

"Sshhh," he murmured once more, "I know what it is that you need."

And he showed her.

***

The sudden noise under their window awakened him from deep, blissful slumber. He got up, shrugged into his banyan, and looked out to see what the disturbance was. But for the light of the waning moon, darkness had fallen over New York. Only a few lanterns could be seen, swaying down the streets as if by themselves. Here and there light shone from a window. There was a patch of moonlight on the floor. Tavington stood in it at he took in the city

Below in the street, a group of drunken soldiers were staggering along, howling out New Year's greetings at the silent windows. Some were attempting to sing, but it was impossible to tell what.

"William," whispered Elizabeth from behind the bed curtains. "Is something wrong?" The candle had guttered down; the fire was only red embers. Elizabeth left the bed carefully, a pale, lovely wraith in the moonlight. She hesitated, and then approached him, touching his arm gently.

"Just some fellow-soldiers, not so fortunate in their New Year celebrations as I." He pulled her inside the banyan, and held her fast against him. She rested her head on his shoulder, looking out the window. The soldiers stumbled down Queen's Street, their wild hallooing fading away.

"It is such a strange place—bigger than Charlestown, and very different."

His lips quirked in a smile. "But the stars are still the same. Look, there are the Pleiades."

"Seven Sisters. But I have never seen but six. Perhaps one has left them." He felt her sigh, and tried to think of comforting words; but she forestalled him. "No, I will not think sad thoughts tonight. Amelia has her man, and I have mine. That is as it should be." She gave a soft laugh. "And now I understand why, after her marriage, she began singing a particular song with such a knowing air."

"Which song?"  
  
"_Man is For the Woman Made."_ Another song by Purcell, but not one my aunt listed among her favourites."

Softly and lightly, she sang in a whisper:

__

"Man, man, man, is for the woman made,

And the woman for the man.

As the spur is to the jade,

As the scabbard to the blade,

As for night's the serenade,

And for pudding is the pan—"

Tavington laughed. Elizabeth thumped his chest lightly, and sang on:

__

"So man, man, man, is for the woman made,

And the woman for the man."

He kissed her, and whispered. "Very appropriate, and quite to the point."

"I suppose so," she murmured, her hands wandering with more confidence now. "The scabbard and the blade part I clearly understand now, but this jade needs no spur."

He led her back to their bed then, and they closed the curtains around them. The patch of moonlight on the floor moved as time passed; and the urgent, muffled moans and rustles from the bed changed to tender, hushed words, and then, to the quiet, regular breathing of untroubled sleep.

---

Author's notes: St. Paul's Chapel, where Tavington and Elizabeth were married, is part of Trinity Parish, and is located at Broadway and Fulton. It is the oldest public building in continual use in Manhattan, and its only colonial church remaining. There will be more of the excellent and reverend Mr. Inglis later.

Sorry that Elizabeth did not wear white to her wedding. White was a favoured colour for weddings gowns by this time, but not the only possible choice—blue was just as popular. White did not become standard for upper class wedding gowns until the end of the 18th century. In fact, at the beginning of the 1700's, _yellow _was the most popular colour. In Elizabeth's time, it was generally considered sensible to have a gown that could be worn again. Elizabeth, between shopping for and making the garments she and Julia would need for their journey, and arranging the voyage itself, just did not have time to make herself a wedding gown. She was sentimentally attached to the green gown anyway, and considered the new petticoat a sufficient upgrade.

McDonald's old nursery rhyme is a metaphor for a daffodil in spring.

A jade in past parlance means: 1. A worthless, broken-down horse, or 2. A worthless, disreputable woman.


	29. Chapter TwentyNine: The Greatest Adventu...

**__**

Disclaimer: I do not own the rights to the Patriot, nor do I own real estate in Nova Scotia.

Author's note: There is an R-rated sexual reference in the first third of the chapter.

****

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE: The Greatest Adventure of All

__

Unlike a book, thought Tavington, _life doesn't come to an end with a marriage._ His life had never been so full before, nor so happy. 

Even after all his dreams of Elizabeth, he had not fully grasped how delightful the companionship of an intelligent and amiable woman could be. The intense erotic satisfaction of teaching her all the secrets of love, bewitching and shameless, was only one source of his happiness. The closeness, the perfect unreserve of their relations, whether in the enchanted seclusion of their bedchamber, or in a casual touch as they read together on the shabby sofa, was source of constant joy. Simply sharing something he had heard, or was reading, was a novelty after so many years alone.

Julia's company, too, was a source of great pleasure and amusement. She was so affectionate toward him, so interested in everything around her, so responsive to the world at large, that Tavington reveled at long last in the sensation of being a brother again. A good brother, too, he trusted. 

They were fortunate in their servants. Chloe was as quiet as Strephon, and equally efficient. Tavington had been a little annoyed at the girl for never looking him in the eye, and for constantly hiding her face in her huge cap. By chance, the brim was one day pushed back, and Tavington saw a ridged scar that could only have been made by a whip running across her jaw to the corner of her mouth. It was a sad disfigurement of a pleasant little face, and he was more understanding of her shyness from that time. 

Even though they were not in a home of their own, Elizabeth was considerate of the servants' welfare. She had discovered that Strephon's room was no more warmly furnished than Chloe's had been, and immediately provided him with better bedding, including, to his valet's great admiration, a vivid red and blue quilt for his own. 

"They are our people," said Elizabeth firmly, "and we must care for them, whether in lodgings or not." Tavington did not disagree, but did remind her that Strephon and Chloe were employees, and not property.

She regarded him blankly, and said, "I have always remembered to pay Chloe her wages; but our servants are still our responsibility." Tavington smiled, and let it pass.

There were a few clouds, of course. Though they did not complain, he could sense that Elizabeth and Julia were not perfectly content with New York: unaccustomed to the cold; unimpressed by the common Mrs. Briggs, with her indifferent cooking and her careless housekeeping; a little at loose ends in a city so very strange to them. 

There was the day Elizabeth decided they must open her cousin's trunk. "We cannot simply cart it everywhere with us. It is probably just full of his linen, and probably some dirty linen at that, which will be most disagreeable." There was linen in it, though none was as dirty as she had feared, but also the odds and ends of a life: The deed to his property, now confiscated by the rebels; a worn deck of cards; a ribbon –tied packet of letters from one Miss Ada Gamble of Savannah, whom Elizabeth did not know; a ribbon-tied lock of fair hair, probably from the same Miss Gamble; Wilkins' razor and other toilet articles; a small pouch full of Spanish doubloons; a box half-filled with very good cigars; a bottle of very old brandy; a suit of civilian clothes; an unpaid bill from an inn outside Norfolk, Virginia ("We were besieged before he could pay it, from the date," commented Tavington); and surprisingly, a copy of _The Compleat Angler_.

"I had no idea he was so fond of fishing," said Tavington.

Elizabeth held the letters and lock of hair for a moment, and then finally said, "I shall write to this Miss Gamble, and return these things to her. Heaven only knows if she still cares for Cousin James, but it would still be better to tell her his fate than to let her wonder."

There was also the business of Amelia and her elopement to be dealt with.

Elizabeth could hardly speak rationally about Amelia and McKay, but finding patience he had not known he possessed, Tavington persuaded her that it would be a good idea for him to write directly to McKay himself, proposing that he and Amelia join them in Nova Scotia. He immediately sat down to the task, calmly listing the advantages the young people would enjoy in being surrounded by family, friends, and former comrades in arms. There need be no disguise or dissimulation among their neighbors, nor need they submit themselves to a government contrary to their principles. There was no question that they would still be independent, as indeed they must be, as man and wife; but they could call on the help and support of those who cared for them, if necessary. He avoided the emotive issues of guilt or duty to loved ones. Such sensitive topics might push the couple away.

He spent considerable time on the letter, and was pleased with it when it was completed. If nothing else, he had made clear that sailing to Nova Scotia with Elizabeth and himself, would, if nothing else, be infinitely _easier_ than the dangerous overland journey across the mountains to Kentucky, made alone. The letter was posted, and all they could do was hope that young Mr. and Mrs. McKay would respond sensibly to it.

Meanwhile, he could distract Elizabeth with the other happenings around them.

Bordon's little son, Hugh, had been born the day after Tavington's wedding. Polly rather thought it was the wedding cake that had brought on her labour; and she was grateful for it, having been with child much longer than she liked. Within a few days, Tavington had taken his bride and his new sister to be presented to her. The introductions had gone well. Polly was delighted to have someone new to talk to and to exclaim over the beauty of her first-born. Tavington and Elizabeth were to be the infant's godparents.

Soon after, Tavington and Bordon, Elizabeth and Polly, had sat down together to discuss their future. Julia sat with them, full of her own ideas, but behaving well. Good spirits, as well as sober thought, were essential to the success of their venture. 

Good preparation was also required. The general plan was to sail to Nova Scotia in the spring. By that time, they should have obtained all the needed supplies, household items, furniture, farm tools---all the complex baggage involved in beginning a new life. They made endless lists, sharing and comparing.

Most enjoyable was designing their new homes. Tavington had never been more aware of his friend's superior education and different experiences in life, as when they first undertook that.

Bordon was the younger son of minor Lincolnshire gentry. As such, he had always known he would have to make his own way in life. Originally destined for the church, he had completed his degree at Cambridge before breaking the news to his appalled family that he would instead be seeking his fortune in the New World.

"My mother screamed that I would be scalped by the wild Indians." Bordon told Tavington, and shrugged, "As it happened, I nearly was, once." 

He had traveled the colonies, working as a secretary to the governor of New York, making friends among the Mohawks, doing some surveying and some exploring. Always, he had carefully husbanded his family inheritance against the day he would find just the right place to settle. The day had come, and now some skills Tavington did not know his friend possessed would prove vital.

Bordon brought out a case containing some drafting instruments of high quality. He had set about drawing up house plans. 

"My maternal uncle was an architect. When I first told the family that I would not be taking orders in the Church, my Uncle Digby approached me with an alternative: I could study with him and become his partner. It was a kind and tempting offer, but I knew I would never be easy if I did not travel to America. I had dreamed of it since boyhood. My imagination was full of the Falls of the Niagara, of distant mountains, and the lore of the native peoples. Still, Uncle had taught me more than he knew over the years, and perhaps," he smiled, looking at the plans before him, "more than I knew myself."

The two of them sat over their tea, describing all the houses they had seen or heard about, from Blenheim Palace to Monticello. Bordon observed, "I think we'll have to be fairly conventional in design. Right angles are always easier for builders to manage than anything more complex. The main thing is to create houses that will satisfy our needs both now and in the future."

The houses that they eventually came up with looked little better than cottages to Tavington, but they must be practical and moderate, after all. 

With all the loyal people wanting to leave New York, the two of them had begun assembling a group of workmen. Tavington and Bordon would pay their passages to Nova Scotia and provide them with food and shelter while their houses and outbuildings were completed. Bordon's property was a little closer to Annapolis Royal, where their building supplies and baggage would be stored; so the plan was to build his house first, and Tavington and his family would move in with them until their own home was finished.

They had also arranged to charter a ship. The brigantine _Palinurus_ was to take them and their party to Annapolis Royal in April. Meanwhile, they made meticulous calculations about the building materials they must bring along. Nova Scotia was a land of forests, but from all they had heard, not exactly replete with seasoned timber for construction. Some of the portions of the houses, like paneling, wainscoting, window frames, and doors, would all be built now, and be ready for assembling at the sites.

The ladies were hard at work on the houses' contents. They shopped, and chose furniture designs and fabric; visiting craftsmen all over the town. They too had made their lists, consulting their copies of the house plans to decide exactly what they would need. Julia announced that she wished to help.

"I want to furnish my own bedchamber. I have money. It will be the prettiest room in the world, and it will all be mine."

"Julia, my dear," objected Tavington, "it is not necessary for you to spend your money. It is for us to provide for you."

"I want to help," Julia pouted. 

In the end, Elizabeth suggested to Tavington, during one of their delicious post-coital conversations, that they ought to let Julia have her way.

"She wants to feel she is helping, my love. And why not? Let her choose what she likes, however wild or extravagant. She will feel included in our decisions, and then, when she marries someday, she will have something to take with her to her new home."

Thus Julia was set loose on the carpenters of New York. She eventually chose the most elaborately carved furnishings that could be completed in time. She was excited beyond words, and began embroidering some bed linens for her special use. She had other plans as well.

Early one morning, she was eager to go shopping for fabric for her wall coverings and for her bed and window draperies. Tavington and Elizabeth, still in bed, could hear her impatiently pacing the floor. Finally she knocked on their door.

"Lilabet, may we go now?"

"Julia, darling, it is not eight o'clock. Find a book to read." Tavington was impressed at the composure with which his bride spoke, as she was at the moment pleasurably impaled upon his lap, her soft legs around him. 

They could also hear Chloe's mild scolding. "Miss Julia, don't you go bothering the Colonel and Mrs. Colonel when they're in their room and _the door is_ _shut_!" 

Tavington smothered a laugh. Elizabeth tried to glare at him, but was in no position to assert her dignity.

***

Strangers invariably took Julia for Tavington's daughter. Kind, plump shopkeepers' wives would smile fondly and tell Tavington how pretty his little girl was. There was no point in explaining the situation, so he merely thanked them and passed on the compliment to his sister-in-law. They had left a nearby shop, having purchased Julia's fabric: a delicate flowered silk for her walls and dark rose velvet for her bedcurtains and drapes. The material would be delivered to their lodgings later that day. Julia had plans for a wonderful coverlet also to be made from the velvet, and was going on about them in detail, when she suddenly shrieked.

__

"Keziah!" Julia let go of Tavington's hand and darted across the filthy street, her pattens clinking at each step. Tavington was instantly after her, expecting her at any moment to be run over by one of the heavy wagons trundling past. 

Julia had caught up with an incredibly thin little black girl of about her own age. The other girl appeared astounded to see her, but also happy enough.

"Miss Julia! How did you get here?"

"I live here now. How did _you_ get here?" 

Julia explained to Tavington that Keziah was formerly from Arcadia. Tavington, after a moment's thought, remembered her speaking of a little friend there, who had tried to hide from the raiders. The girl was certainly not a very promising specimen. As well as looking more than half-starved and nearly frozen, she was dirty and ragged, and decidedly odiferous. He discreetly kept Julia from throwing her arms about her. 

Elizabeth, walking more cautiously on her pattens, was now across the street and had also recognized Keziah. The little girl curtseyed to her, more in awe of her former mistress than she was of Julia.

It seemed that she was waiting near the local bakery, where her mother worked for food. "Waiting" was a synonym for "begging," for the child had a few coins given to her by compassionate passersby. 

"Well," said Elizabeth, "come back with us to our lodgings. We'll get you something to eat, and you can tell us how you came to be here." The girl followed along, not even thinking of disobeying. Tavington could hear her and Julia, whispering together.

They arranged for the child to be fed, and as she was wolfing down her second bowl of porridge, she told them her adventures.

Keziah and her mother, Dandy, had been claimed by a man they did not know. After the slaves were shared out, this man had found he had not brought enough shackles, and decided to chain only the men. The second night, Keziah and Dandy had slipped away into the darkness, and after some time, managed to get their bearings. Traveling cautiously at night, they had finally made their way back to Arcadia. 

"But weren't nobody there. The place was empty and all we heard was the wind. We didn't know what to do. We figured those men had carried you off too, so Mama and me got our things together and headed out. Mama thought we'd make for Charlestown, and we saw some redcoats one day and we asked if we could go along with them. They took us back to their fort, and Mama cooked for the Major and I cleaned and washed and such."

"What was the Major's name?" asked Tavington.

"Major Cochrane, sir. He sure was a nice gentleman. I didn't get regular wages like Mama, but now and then the Major would give me some money. And when he went North, he took us with him to cook for him in New York."

Tavington smiled faintly at the irony. He would never have thought to question Cochrane about his domestic arrangements, back when the major was commanding the Legion infantry. After Cowpens, Cochrane had eventually returned to headquarters in New York. Last October, he had tried to rejoin Cornwallis, and after many hardships, managed to slip past the blockade at Yorktown in a rowboat. After all that, he had been walking along the fortifications with the Lord General one day when a random cannonball had taken off his head.

"So your mother lost her employment when Major Cochrane left New York?"

"No, sir. He got us a place with this Colonel Dixon 'fore he left, and that was all right. But just 'fore Christmas, nearly all the officer gentlemen up and left, and Mama couldn't find nobody to give us a place. So that baker man said she could work there for her dinner, but they watch her to make sure she don't take nothing away, so I has to find my own dinner."

Elizabeth bit her lip, and gave Tavington a questioning look. He shrugged. "Keziah," Elizabeth finally said, handing the girl an apple, "when your mother is done for the day, tell her to come and see me here. You are not in trouble, and we are not going to claim you as our slaves." The girl's eyes widened: she had plainly not considered this issue at all. Elizabeth amplified, "The Colonel does not approve of owning slaves. Possibly we could find a place for your mother."

When they finally sent the girl on her way, she had a bag of food and a warm shawl. Tavington remarked, "I quite understand wanting to do something for your former servants, but I'm not sure what kind of work might be possible. Perhaps the Bordons---"

Elizabeth shook her head. "Dandy is a cook."

"A good one," added Julia, with satisfaction.

Tavington understood. They had discussed household help. Both Strephon and Chloe would have too much to do to also undertake all the cooking duties. Having a cook along would be worth the additional expense of her having a child to provide for as well. Now they would concentrate on finding the farm labour they would need.

***

The worst of the cold was over, and Elizabeth seemed in better humour with New York, though she still wondered aloud that "so many rude people could fit into one town." Tavington smiled, and reflected that it was just as well they would not be living here much longer. Both Elizabeth and Julia had found the manners and speech of the New Yorkers very strange. Elizabeth on occasion complained of hardly being able to understand a word that was said to her.

"And yet you understand me perfectly well," Tavington teased.

"You are _English_, my dearest! I understand Englishmen. _Papa_ was English! I even understand Scotsmen, as there were plenty of them about the Carolinas. What I cannot understand is this Northern capacity to compress whole sentences into a few syllables!"

With the moderating weather came the opportunity to take his ladies out for exercise on their horses. Elizabeth and Candace had loved each other from the first, and even before the weather would permit riding, Elizabeth paid visits to her new friend, bringing her treats and conversing amiably. Julia named her pony Quicksilver, and could hardly be prevented from riding off alone.

New York and the island of Manhattan were not at their best this time of year, but Elizabeth and Julia still very much enjoyed traveling the busy streets. Then they would head north up the Broadway, past St. Paul's Chapel, and further into the meadows and farmlands north of the city proper. They saw everything: the banks of the Hudson River, the old windmills of the Dutch farmers; and then going back south, the public buildings and the curious shops everywhere. Tavington found himself, for the first time since his schooldays, a regular churchgoer; for Elizabeth thought highly of the Reverend Mr. Inglis, and every Sunday saw them in attendance at St. Paul's Chapel. It was not as bad as he remembered, for Inglis was intelligent man with sensible things to say; and loyal as he was, he was the right man for keeping up the spirits of a congregation afflicted with anxiety and unhappiness.

Tavington still had his duties to perform, and could not spend all the time he would have liked with his family. _My family_, he thought, _what wonderful words_. Still, they seemed to find plenty of work with planning and sewing, plenty of time to call on Polly Bordon and play with the baby, and plenty to amuse them about town. 

Tavington made a point of finding a clever painter of miniatures to take Elizabeth's likeness. When he had, for a moment, thought her lost and drowned, his first thought had been: _I do not even have a picture of her! _The little portrait was quickly completed, and was very like, even to capturing the dark sparkle in her eyes. The pleased and excited Julia was painted next, and finally, at Elizabeth's insistence, Tavington himself. 

One afternoon, Elizabeth and Julia were not home when Tavington returned. When they arrived a little later, Julia was worn out, and Elizabeth glowing with pleasure.

"We found a music shop," said Julia, as if that explained everything. She rolled her eyes in a long-suffering look, and Tavington laughed. 

Elizabeth defended herself. "You appeared to me to having quite a time yourself."

"It was all right," Julia admitted. She told Tavington. "The place is owned by this old German, who has these big spectacles like goggles. He was the funniest sight—" Elizabeth looked at her reprovingly. Julia dropped that subject, and went on: "The place had a nice smell, like wood and paper. And he had all sorts of strange instruments. He let me play on the hurdy-gurdy, and he had harps—"

Tavington laughed again and shook his head. He thought the hurdy-gurdy a ridiculous instrument, but he was glad they had enjoyed themselves.

"—And he and Lilabet talked for hours about Sir Thomas Arne, and Mr. Christian Bach, and Mr. Haydn, and about all these Italians. And Lilabet played on his big pianoforte, and then I had to, too, and then he gave us coffee and sweets, and then she bought some music, and then he said to come again."

***

Dinner did not quite agree with Elizabeth that night. Julia thought it must have been the coffee. 

"You never tasted such strong coffee! It could have stood up and _walked_!"

"Yes, thank you, Julia." Elizabeth looked positively queasy. "Perhaps we could not talk about it any more. In fact—" She rose from her chair a little unsteadily. "I think I'm going to lie down for awhile."

Tavington finished his dinner, and went into the bedchamber to see how Elizabeth was. She was curled on her side, with no candle lit. Only the dim, flickering fire illumined the room.

"Elizabeth?" He lay down with her, wrapping an arm around her. "Are you ill?"

"No, not at all," she replied softly. She put her arm over his, and snuggled closer to him. "I am now certain about what I had wondered all week."

"Certain about what?"

"Certain that we shall want larger quarters within the year." She said nothing more.

The quiet lengthened, as the import of her words gradually became clear to Tavington. A slow smile tugged at his lips. His grasp tightened. "Are you sure? Perhaps it really was the coffee."

"It is not just the indigestion. There are other signs." She took his hand, and pressed it over her breast. He could feel the first soft engorgement there.

"My Elizabeth," he whispered. "You will be the sweetest mother." 

She turned toward him, with a kiss. She began undoing his buttons, a rather determined glint in her eye. He looked at her with some indecision, and she pushed him decisively onto his back.

"I thought you were unwell."

"You shall be my cure. And I hope," she stated, archly, "that my condition does not mean you will cease to worship me as you ought."

Happily supine, as she continued to undress him, he quoted_, "Your desire is to my heart an absolute commandment."_

They lay together afterwards in that state of perfect bliss that is like floating on the clouds. Elizabeth's hand was in his, her head pressed softly against his shoulder. He found the energy to speak, and asked, "Have you thought what you should like to name the child?"

"William if it is a boy. That one is easy." 

He smiled, and squeezed her hand. "And what if the child is a girl?"

"Would you mind if it were a girl?" she countered.

Tavington considered a moment. He had never thought about any child other than the sturdy small boy of the riding lesson. With quickening imagination, however, the boy was transformed into a pretty little girl, with huge wondering eyes, dressed in an endearing miniature copy of her mother's riding habit. He lifted the small body up into the pony's sidesaddle, and arranged soft little hands on the reins. He swallowed.

"No, I don't suppose I would mind. What should we name her?"

"What was your mother's name?"

"Arabella."

"Hmmm."

"A good enough name, but one of ill-omen for me. Perhaps you would like to name her after your own mother. Emma Tavington has a nice sound to it."

"Very nice indeed. But I had thought—perhaps—to call her Zenobia."

Tavington laughed out loud. "You want to name our daughter after your horse?"

"Yes, well---I thought a lot of that horse."

"Emma Tavington."

"Oh, very well----Emma Tavington."

***

A letter came from Charlestown in late February. It was directed to Tavington, and Elizabeth was overjoyed and anxious at once. She sat, twisting her handkerchief, while Tavington broke the seal. Julia, at the pianoforte, turned around expectantly.

He looked over the letter, then looked at it again, while trying to think of a kind way to break the news to Elizabeth.

She, for her part, was growing more anxious. "Please, my dearest—what do they say?"

It would be cruel to keep her waiting. "My love, it is from Mrs. Rutherford. She returns my letter, with a note." 

Elizabeth caught her breath, and Julia came to sit with her, holding her hand.

Tavington cleared his throat. "Amelia and McKay never received my letter. They have already left the school. They told Mrs. Rutherford they were concerned that the city could be evacuated at any time, so they departed for North Carolina, from whence they shall cross the mountains in the spring. Mrs. Rutherford knows no more than that."

Tavington, with angry helplessness, watched his wife dissolve into sobs. All he could do was sit on her other side and hold her, as Julia did.

"I shall never see her again!" Elizabeth choked out, hiding her face in her handkerchief. She collapsed against Tavington, giving way to grief. Julia jumped up and paced the room furiously.

"I knew it! All they wanted was to go somewhere where they could be alone together. They want to find _perfect love_, just like Melly always was talking about. Don't you mind them, Lilabet! Don't you mind them! I'll never leave you! And they're selfish _pigs!"_

"Oh, Julia, _don't!_" cried Elizabeth, sobbing harder.

"I hate them!" Julia shouted. "I _hate_ them! They're a pair of cowardly traitors and I shall never speak their names again!" She ran into her little room and slammed the door.

Julia was as good as her word. Elizabeth, telling him something of the months in which they had been separated, made clear that a breach had developed between Amelia and Julia, as the older girl matured into womanhood and her first love. Julia, not understanding her sister's feelings, had seen in them a lack of family affection and loyalty. To some extent, a rift had opened between Amelia and Elizabeth herself. Amelia had grown secretive, and full of her own and McKay's opinions; disregarding Elizabeth's guidance, and showing herself quietly contemptuous of other adults. 

"She feels that her family failed her. Papa's views led to us losing our home—and he and Mamma died and left us. She felt the first betrayal was theirs. I could not protect her from the rebels, and that hideous night---I did not understand at first how it had affected her. She hated living with Aunt—and then when we went to the school she felt how we had come down in the world. She was very bitter that we could not stay with the DeLanceys. The family really was lovely to us, and it would have been a comfort to her. When you wrote that Cousin James was killed, she was unsurprised, and said only that she always knew that the war would be the ruin of our family."

"And then all this with David." She gave a rueful, bitter laugh. "As much as I hate to admit it, perhaps my aunt was right; and it was a mistake to let her read Rousseau."

***

They spent a pleasant evening with the Bordons a few days later. Bordon was mangling him at chess under Julia's interested eye, when he heard snippets of the conversation between Elizabeth and Polly, as they sewed industriously on baby linen.

Polly was saying softly, "Of course it is very sad and disappointing for you, Mrs. Tavington, but just think: no matter whom she married, the two of you would most likely have been separated. If her husband had stayed in the Army, she might have gone to England, or even to India. It is just the way of the world." Polly paused briefly in her sewing, and added, "And she is not the first girl to lose her head over a young man and go away with him. At least they are married, and you think him of good character otherwise."

The baby demanded her attention, and the conversation changed, but Tavington noticed that from that time Elizabeth's spirits seemed better.

***

By early April, their arrangements were complete: their supplies purchased, their building materials collected, their workmen enlisted. The ship was ready, and its master, Captain Locke, eager to set sail. Elizabeth and Julia, though deploring the necessity, were consoled by the prospect of seeing their new home. Polly, with her baby to care for, was understandably nervous about undertaking her first sea voyage. Bordon was solicitous, but firm with her; and she seemed determined to be brave. 

Tavington and Bordon were put on the inactive list. Tavington bade farewell to the British Legion and his Green Dragoons: to some of them, forever; and he felt a certain sorrow at losing contact with men with whom he had shared so much. To others, it seemed more like a temporary separation. Many of them would be going out to Nova Scotia themselves as soon as their claims were resolved. Perhaps they might yet meet again. He wondered what their lives in peacetime would be like. It struck him full force, as he left the camp, that he would never ride the charge again; and he felt a momentary panic at leaving behind what had been his life for twenty years. 

He paused, took a deep breath, and commanded himself. _After all,_ he reflected_, I am leaving a life behind_, _but I have a new one before me with Elizabeth. Perhaps love is the greatest adventure of all._

--- 

Author's notes: Pattens were metal or wooden footgear that were strapped to the shoe, and they raised the wearer a few inches above the street. Women (and sometimes men) wore them to keep their shoes and hems clear of the filth.

Tavington's house may look small to him, both on paper and when it was built, but that is because he grew up in a very grand country house indeed. Most of us would think a red brick Georgian with (in its final form) six bedrooms (not counting some servants quarters partitioned off in the attic) quite a handsome upper-middle class house. Of course, when the house was modernised in the 1920's, one of the bedrooms was converted into two bathrooms and some closets.

Tavington quotes Sir Philip Sidney's _Arcadia._

Elizabeth's statement about Rousseau refers back to her aunt's scornful mention of _Julie, ou la Nouvelle Heloise_. This novel was one of the first works of the Romantic movement, and tells the story of a pair of lovers struggling against the demands of society, much like the medieval Heloise and Abelard, to whom the subtitle refers. Certainly Amelia's behaviour might indicate a girl who had taken the book very much to heart.


	30. Chapter Thirty: A World of Their Own

**__**

Disclaimer: I do not own the rights to the Patriot, but I do own two apple trees.

CHAPTER THIRTY: A World of Their Own 

They had been at sea over a week, and were nearing their destination. The passage had been easy, and Tavington was pleased that his family found their second voyage far less arduous than their first. Julia ran about on deck, watching the sailors at their work, and was everyone's pet. 

He had been glad to have this pause between his life in the army, and what would soon be his life as a farmer in a new land. Simply becoming accustomed to civilian clothes took something of an effort, although Elizabeth loved his dark green coat. He still wore his sword, but that did not make him unusual in these times. 

The lookout called out, "Land, ho!" Sure enough, a hazy dark line became gradually more visible in the distance. Bordon joined him at the rail, glowing with anticipation.

Tavington said, "You looked pleased. In fact, you look ready to declaim."

His friend gave a self-deprecating laugh and admitted, "I feel ready to declaim."

"What would it be?---'_Hic domus, haec patria est'_—" 

Bordon laughed again. "Very likely."

Julia had overheard. "What does that mean?"

Bordon explained, "It is from the _Aeneid_, when Aeneas sees a favourable omen, and says 'Hail, O promised land of my destiny! Here is my home, my country---' and then goes on about it at pretty good length."

"I can believe it," she said sourly, and walked over beside Tavington. "Probably somebody else is saying just the same thing, only about Kentucky and in English."

Tavington affectionately put an arm around the thin little shoulders; and they were intent on the land, until another call startled them.

"Ship off the port side!"

They crossed the deck, and Tavington saw Captain Locke observing an object through his spyglass.

"It appears to be a derelict. She's lost the foremast and seems to have suffered some fire." He snapped the glass shut. "There may be survivors. We had better have a look."

Sure enough, as the distance lessened, they saw a few figures on deck, waving to them, and still closer, they could hear the pleas for help.

Locke called out to them, "What ship are you?"

A figure at the bow answered, "The _Scylla_, out of St. Augustine. We were attacked by rebels, and escaped in a fog. We are taking on water, and must abandon ship."

They hove close to the foundering vessel, and Locke offered to send some men over to see if the damage could be repaired.

"No!" came the answer. "We are certain nothing can be done. Request permission to come aboard."

The company and passengers of the _Palinurus_ gathered to have a look at the wounded ship and its crew. Elizabeth and Polly, carrying her baby, came out on deck to see what the commotion was.

Locke called out again, "Do you need help salvaging your cargo?"

"We jettisoned the cargo to keep afloat. There's nothing to save but our lives."

The _Scylla'_s men had put out in a longboat, and Locke ordered a ladder lowered for them.

Tavington quietly remarked to the captain, "If they are in such mortal danger, why have they not already rowed to land?"

Locke looked quickly at him, and they shared a sudden, frightening surmise. The _Scylla'_s men were scurrying quickly up the ladder, and as they climbed out onto the deck, they were already drawing their weapons.

Their leader, tall and sunken-eyed, shouted, "Surrender your ship in the name of the Continental Congress!" 

Chaos erupted. Tavington pushed Julia toward her sister, shouted, "Get below!" at the women, and drew his blade instantly. He felt cold fury that these damned rebels would try one last time to threaten everything precious to him. Bordon shot one of the rebels with a pocket pistol Tavington had not known he possessed, and the man fell back, knocking two of his comrades from the ladder. _I have got to get one of those myself, if I live through this_, Tavington thought wildly. _Or two or three_. His own beautiful pistols were carefully stowed in their case in his cabin.

Captain Locke shot another of their assailants. Tavington drove at the leader, knocking a henchman aside with the hilt of his sword. The privateer took aim at him, and fired, but the ship gave a sudden lurch, and the ball went wide. He dropped the pistol and drew his own sword just in time to meet Tavington's. Their blades clashed together, striking sparks, and Tavington nearly had him with a slash that scratched his opponent's jaw and left a thin scarlet mark. 

Pausing to wipe his face, and beginning to look more warily at Tavington, the privateer hissed, "You have no idea who I am."

Tavington felt the fierce dark joy of battle sweep over him. He smiled menacingly at his unexpected enemy, and said, "In a moment, it will be 'who you were.'" His blade arced up from below, and sliced across the man's chest, tearing open his coat and drawing blood. The privateer dodged backwards.

The rest of the _Palinurus'_ company, encouraged by their leaders, joined in the struggle. Unarmed men found hammers and axes. Others pulled knives. The _Scylla_'s crew found themselves at a sudden disadvantage, crowding up the narrow ladder, and confined to one area of the ship; while the defenders could fire upon them from front and sides, from the quarterdeck, and from the rigging. The privateers, accustomed to shocked prey, slow to resist, were taken aback by the immediate and aggressive response. 

Tavington hoped a little discouragement would be enough. Privateers were not in business to sacrifice their lives or to destroy property, but to seize largely intact ships for profit and their passengers for ransom. A portion of their takings must be paid to whichever government had given them letters of marque, but the rest was theirs, and many a once-respectable sailor had grown rich in this half-piratical trade. If the attackers withdrew, the _Palinurus _was not armed to pursue them, nor would Tavington risk the women and children on board to seek vengeance.

One of the privateer crew screamed wildly, his hand pinned to the rail by one of Strephon's knives. Tavington glanced over, and saw the look of satisfaction on his servant's face. Seeing him distracted a moment, his opponent lunged forward, nearly running him through. Tavington neatly sidestepped the thrust, and pulled his attacker forward, making him lose his balance. 

He was not the _Scylla'_s captain for nothing, though, and while falling, lashed out with his foot to trip Tavington. Stumbling, but not quite going down, Tavington found himself coping with the privateer captain, stabbing up from below, and a short, very aggressive confederate of his, running at Tavington with a cutlass.

The latter stopped suddenly, looking surprised, and Tavington, not wanting to fall for that old ruse, kept his eye on him. The sound of his wife's voice behind him was a shock. 

He glanced behind him and saw that Elizabeth was there, aiming one of her father's pistols down at the head of the privateer captain. The other was pointed rather waveringly at the rest of the ship in general. It was briefly aimed at Tavington, and he carefully moved aside.

She cried, "I can't bear this! I won't endure anymore of this! Drop your weapons and surrender or I'll shoot you! I swear it!"

The privateer's crew backed away, with a few cautious chuckles.

"Put the pistols down, Ma'am, before you hurt yourself," a one-eyed rebel suggested slyly.

Elizabeth trained the left-hand pistol directly upon him. "Rebels! Pirates! Do you know how tired I am of you? " The pistols were shaking slightly in her hands, and she took a breath and steadied her grip. The short fellow who had run at Tavington began to edge forward.

Tavington was just about to tell her to hand him the pistol, when she fired. The short rebel clapped a hand to the side of his head, where blood was flowing from his wounded ear.

__

"She shot me," the rebel said, in disbelief. "She shot me." He fell to the deck, stunned by the glancing impact.

Elizabeth looked like she could not quite believe it herself. She was distracted just enough that the privateer captain rolled away, sword in hand, and was on his feet. Tavington saw the movement and shoved Elizabeth behind him. 

He shouted at his wife, "Where is Julia?"

"Mrs. Bordon locked her in the cabin with her while I ran for the pistols."

Tavington rolled his eyes, hoping that _someone_ would stay where she belonged. "Give that to me," he ordered, pulling the pistol brusquely from her hand. He trained it on the privateer captain, who eyed him, looking for an opportunity to escape.

The _Palinurus'_ company was doing well, and had put the privateers on the defensive. Bordon had accounted for another one of the attackers, and it looked like the privateers had had enough. A thrown belaying pin made Tavington duck, and the privateer captain shouted, "Back to the ship!" and flung himself over the side. The other rebels still capable of this followed suit. 

The _Palinurus'_ defenders ran to the port side and the few with loaded weapons tried to pick off the swimming enemy. All missed. Tavington decided not to waste a shot on such a target, and turned to Elizabeth, smiling. She looked harassed and beautiful, and Tavington could not help kissing her before all hands. 

"My brave girl," he said with astonishment, "what were you thinking?"

Elizabeth was wide-eyed and shaking, and she clung to him desperately. "I knew you did not have your pistols. I could not let them harm you. I could not let them take everything from me again."

As he held her, neither he nor anyone else noticed the rebel whom Elizabeth had shot stagger to his feet. Tavington heard the cry of alarm from Bordon, and the report of a pistol. 

Automatically he raised his own pistol and fired at the sound. The rebel coughed up blood and fell heavily to the deck, shot through the lung. Captain Locke and his sailors crowded around him, and hid the man's dying struggles from Tavington's view.

Elizabeth had gasped and clutched at him convulsively. Tavington fearing the worst, gripped her arms, and looked her over anxiously.

"My love, are you all right----are you wounded?"

She let out a soft, sighing breath, and reached slowly up to her hair.

Tavington, in wretched suspense, waited for her answer.

She pulled off her lace-trimmed cap and looked at it with dismay. There was a round hole in the ruffled brim.

"He's ruined my cap," Elizabeth said with wondering indignation. Tavington, satisfied that no greater harm had been done, pulled her fast against him, laughing with relief.

"It is _not_ a laughing matter," she protested, still trembling with delayed shock. "That was my favourite cap."

The rest of the _Scylla'_s crew were rounded up and chained below. Regret on his face, Captain Locke saw the _Scylla_ restep the foremast that they had taken down to disguise themselves as a wreck. The enemy raised sail and moved away slowly, to the jeers of the _Palinurus'_ crew and passengers, now very pleased with themselves. None of their own people had been killed, but two of the crew were badly wounded, and one of Bordon's farm labourers had been dealt a hard knock to the head with a pistol-butt. There were a number of other injuries, mostly sword cuts, that would need care. Locke ordered the ship's surgeon to see to them at once.

Bordon came over, anxious for Elizabeth's safety. Elizabeth was still volubly upset about her spoiled cap, but assured him that she herself was unhurt.

"Not for want of effort," sneered Tavington, as the dead rebels were rolled over the side, and sank beneath the waves. Some gulls overhead echoed his contempt with raucous cries.

He looked thoughtfully at the pistol in his hand. "That may have been the last time I fire a shot in anger," he told Bordon.

Elizabeth said, "I pray you are right." She took his hand, and they went below.

The women servants were at the foot of the ladder and they sobbed and embraced one another as Tavington assured them of their safety. The baby was screaming in the Bordons' cabin, and they could hear Polly comforting him. 

Julia called out, "Who's there? Is that you, Lilabet?"

"Yes," laughed her sister, "the pirates are gone. One of them wounded my cap, but William shot him."

"Serves him right," growled Julia. "May I come out now?"

Tavington and Elizabeth looked at each other. Polly opened the door, smiling, and Julia ran out to embrace both of them. Bordon pushed past them to go to Polly and hold her and the baby.

"Julia, my dear," said Elizabeth, "you must not bother us for a little while. Why don't you and Keziah go out on deck and look at the land?"

"All right!" cried Julia, darting away to find Keziah.

"And don't fall overboard!" Elizabeth called after her.

They glanced at the oblivious Bordons, and quietly entered their own cabin.

His blood still up, and thinking over the last few minutes and what might have befallen, Tavington returned his pistols to the their case. Then he took Elizabeth by the shoulders, and gave her a quick, hard shake. "Never do that again!" he blazed at her, and suddenly pulled her close for a deep, searing kiss. He pressed her back on the narrow bed, and took her quickly, with her effulgent consent. She could not quite keep silent throughout, and in only a few minutes they were clutching at each other, gasping for breath in the stuffy little room.

"Never do that again," he repeated in a whisper, pressing a kiss into her disordered dark hair.

"I cannot promise such a thing," she whispered back. "Not when the punishment is so sweet."

They lay still, each holding the other close, listening to the other's heartbeat. Through the dusty, rippled panes of their cabin's window, they could see the _Palinurus_ draw ever closer to its safe harbour at last.

***

Annapolis Royal, once the capital of the colony, was a pretty, bustling, little port town with a fort, some stores, a few decent looking houses, and comfortable accommodations for them all at Mr. Sinclair's Inn.

They were all exceedingly glad to disembark onto solid ground. Once their wives, children, and servants were situated at the inn, and their possessions unloaded and stored at a warehouse, Tavington and Bordon were free to ride out with some of the builders, and explore and survey their lands and likely house sites. The tender young leaves of spring made a pale green mist in the trees. Tavington was enchanted with everything, and he could see that Bordon felt the same. 

There was a kind of road running parallel to the river from Annapolis Royal, through their properties, and on up the valley. It was possible to find traces of the old Acadian fields. Gradually, they were improving their maps and getting a better idea of the lay of the land. 

"I don't think I appreciated what a lot of land two thousand acres really is," said Bordon with awe.

Tavington agreed. Their holdings were like little realms of their own. The soil seemed fertile, the river and tributary streams full of fish, the lands themselves rich with game and timber. It was wonderful, simply wonderful, and more than he had ever dreamed of.

Within a few days they had discovered several possible locations for the houses. Reporting back to Elizabeth and Julia, Tavington found them absolutely determined to ride out with him and give their opinions as to where their home should be built.

"My love," murmured Tavington, not wishing to quarrel about it, "in your condition it would hardly be safe---"

Elizabeth looked reproachful and insistent. "I promise," she said, a little testy, "not to hurt Candace. I know she will not hurt me."

Julia jaw was set. "Quicksilver needs a nice long ride. And so do I."

*** 

After consulting with Bordon, it seemed that Polly was also anxious to see their new properties. At a distance of over twenty miles, it was inadvisable to make the trip and the return in one day. Accordingly, a wagon was loaded with tents, cots, and supplies: it would also carry the servants who were coming along. Another wagon was covered and a featherbed laid inside for the ladies to rest upon if the ride became too tiring, and for Polly to have privacy while nursing the baby. 

The little expedition set out on a sweet May morning. Elizabeth, Julia, and Polly were pleased by everything they saw, and seemed the better for the exercise and air. When the Bordons turned aside to explore some proposed house sites, Tavington rode on with Elizabeth and Julia to consider the location of their own new home. 

They could only hope to see a few particularly pretty spots. An area of nearly eight square miles would take a long time for thorough acquaintance. Tavington took them to a favoured place on some rising ground, not far from the road. Prospect, foliage, and size were all approved. Elizabeth and Julia had never before seen birch trees and found them very beautiful. Tavington took them back further into the woods, along their own quick-flowing stream.

Elizabeth turned in the saddle, and looked past Tavington. "What is that white back there?"

"I don't know." Tavington looked himself. Past some pines there was indeed something white. As they rode closer, he saw it was an apple orchard in full bloom.

It was a very old orchard. Tavington could see it would need attention. He dismounted, and examined the trees more closely. Many of them were full of dead wood, and new seedlings and saplings were growing up haphazardly among them. The place would need pruning and thinning, but it was an orchard, and it was all theirs.

Julia slid off Quicksilver and stood under the branches. Soft white petals floated down, lightly sprinkling her hair. She gathered up a handful and breathed in the fragrance approvingly. 

"This can't have grown by itself," Elizabeth observed. "Someone must have planted it." Tavington helped her down carefully, giving her belly a discreet caress. She smiled, and kissed him quickly. Julia did not deign to notice.

Then he saw it. "There," he said, pointing.

They walked over to the ruins. A little cabin had stood there. A chimney remained, and parts of two walls. Years ago, it had been burned down.

"Well," Elizabeth reflected, standing near what had once been the hearth. "We are not the first to lose our home."

"All they had to do was swear loyalty to the King," Tavington told her. They caught each other's eye and laughed at the irony. He added, "If they did not, the buildings were burned, and the inhabitants exiled. Some remained: there are still French around here; mostly Huguenots, who were not influenced against England by the priests."

Julia asked him, "Where did the people who lived here go?"

"I'm not sure, my dear. Many of the Acadians went south to Louisiana."

"I hope they are all right."

*** 

There was so much to do. The house sites were chosen, and construction begun on Bordon's home. Fields were laid out and cleared, and the plowmen set to work. They could at least sow kitchen gardens, and a few small fields this year. The old orchard was put in order: Bordon took some of the young trees that were cleared away; the rest Tavington transplanted near his house to make a second orchard that would be a fair sight someday from his library window.

In their desire to get their homes and barns completed, both Tavington and Bordon found themselves performing tasks that they never would have considered back in England. The exercise was satisfying, and there were no near neighbors to be shocked at their ungentlemanlike activities. By the middle of July, Bordon's house was complete and they all moved in. Bordon and Polly, at either end of the dining table, smiled secretively at one another. It appeared that there would be yet another Bordon in due course.

On the night of August 29th, Tavington and Elizabeth took a walk by the river and looked at the stars. Last year at Yorktown seemed a world away. Tavington's life had changed beyond recognition, and the changes had been decidedly for the better. Elizabeth smiled and pressed close to him, her hand on his arm, while she looked up at the summer constellations. 

"Virgo," she said, pointing out the bright star Spica. "My sign."

"Not anymore," he smirked. She gave him a glance of mock reproof and leaned even closer.

***

The apples ripened in the old orchard, and proved very good indeed. Everyone went out to help pick them, and they had not enough barrels for them all. Tavington congratulated himself on his own forethought in having brought a cider press. They would experiment with various ways of making cider, and surely some of it would turn out well. He had heard that cider had been the drink of the Acadians, and now he understood why.

Elizabeth's condition made her even more beautiful in Tavington's eyes. He had never seen anything as charming as his enormously pregnant wife feeding apples to an equally gravid Candace. _There's something that John Wilde should have lived to paint._

If Candace's foal proved to be a filly, he would train her up as a proper lady's horse for Julia. In a few years, she would outgrow the pony, and there would be a new rider for Quicksilver, anyway.

Zebedee and Miriah Hopkins came to call at the Bordons. They lived a short distance away, and had come from New England just before the war had broken out. They had never considered supporting the rebels, and were fairly smug about having avoided the "late unpleasantness." They brought with them a horde of grim-faced children, ranging from five months to fifteen. Julia failed to find them charming.

"Those Hopkins girls did not even wait to be introduced before they asked me if I were 'saved.'" Julia sniffed, and said to Tavington, "I told them you saved us from the rebels, and they thought I was 'turrible frivolous.' I should hope so."

The Hopkins' acquaintance proved useful, however, for Mr. Hopkins knew all there was to know about sugar maples, and was pleased to show off his knowledge to the newcomers. Tavington wrote down some of the details after the family left, and was eager to try refining maple sugar from his own trees when the time came.

News trickled up to them of the outside world. Tavington found he cared very little about any of it. The world of their own they were making seemed more absorbing than all the affairs of England, France, and the Colonies combined.

*** 

Their home was finished on the second of October. It took only a few days to move all their possessions into it. There was little indecision, as they all had had plenty of time to plan minutely the exact location of every stick of furniture, every picture on the wall, every book on the shelves, every piece of crockery in the kitchen. Julia's delight in her own room, with its elaborate furnishings and elegant rose velvet draperies, had them all nearly mad one moment, and helpless with laughter the next. She stood before the dainty dressing table, arranging her silver brush, comb, and mirror just so; dithering over the perfect placement of her scent bottles. She even tried to obtain Tavington's opinion on these matters, and he laughed and disclaimed any understanding of such feminine mysteries. 

She stroked her velvet drapes, looking a little sad.

"I suppose once that baby comes, you won't have time to be my friend anymore."

Concerned that she would even think such a thing, he said, "Always, always, my dear Julia. I shall always be your friend and your brother. You were my first friend at Arcadia, after all." He sat carefully in her small, soft armchair, wanting to quash such imaginings at once. "I know you don't care much for babies, but this baby will be your very own niece or nephew. The child will look up to you, and you will have a great influence on its upbringing."

Rather consoled by the idea of being a figure of authority, Julia nodded. "I suppose _our_ baby will be better than those Montgomerys. I just hope it doesn't drool as much. _Now_," she said, somewhat restored to her usual humour and returning to the subject she liked best in the world, "do you like the peacock feathers or the ostrich plumes in the vase?"

Tavington knew himself trapped, and rendered his opinion without a trace of levity.

***

The servants, too, were happy to be in their own place. Elizabeth had promised Chloe that she would always have a room of her own; and the maid, along with their other servants, was given sufficient time to arrange her own chamber as she liked.

Tavington had somehow always imagined that Strephon and Chloe would become attached to each other, but his reading of the human heart was completely out in this case. It was Dandy and Strephon who seemed on the way to becoming a fond couple. 

"I rather thought he fancied Chloe," mused Tavington, one night as he got into bed. Elizabeth looked tired, now at the weary end of her confinement, and he helped arrange some pillows around her for her comfort.

"She did not fancy him," Elizabeth told him briskly. "She does not fancy anybody. She said when she first came to me that the chief charm of liberty was the freedom to say 'no' to men. I did not enquire further into what is evidently a painful history. I promised her then that she would have a room of her own as soon as I had a house of my own. She is certainly worth it."

*** 

Elizabeth was obsessively arranging the nursery, and spent so much time there that Tavington was a little surprised to note one day that she had instead spent an entire morning writing letters at her little desk in the parlour.

"I take it you are writing to Amelia, " he remarked. "Have you any idea how to direct it to her?"

"I am sending it under cover to Judge Henderson. He is often away on his travels, but he does have a home, and the letter should eventually make its way to him. He is the one most likely to know how to locate David and Amelia." She rested her head in her hand, and seemed deep in thought. "I told them how to direct a letter to us, and how to find us if Kentucky proved not to their liking. I said that they would be most welcome to join us. I did not know what else to say." She caught the kind and amused look in his eye, and smiled back. "Except, of course, that they are soon to be uncle and aunt of a most remarkable child; and that the Annapolis Valley is a little paradise, and that we are blissfully happy."

He leaned over for a kiss. "All perfectly true. You are a most veracious correspondent."

She kissed him back, and then said gravely, "But Amelia is not the sole object of my efforts. I wrote first to Cousin Charlotte, so she would know where we are and that we are well. And then----then I wrote to my Uncle Ned."

"I thought that relationship was closed."

"So everyone in the family has told me, but I do not know why. What I principally know about Uncle Ned is that he is our closest living relative. He cannot possibly know what has happened to us, so I spent some time giving the history of our family and of the war: about the loss of my father and Richard, and Cousin James and Cousin Frank; about my mother—his sister's –death; about the final days of Aunt Sarah Jane Minerva. I told him about the loss of Arcadia, and about you." Here she gently laid her hand over Tavington's. "I told him of our marriage and that you and I and Julia were here and happy in Nova Scotia. Even if he cares nothing for us—even if he hates us all—he still has a right to know what has become of us. It was in some ways a sad letter to write, for the toll of disasters seems high when summarised on a few sheets of paper. Still, I think it did me good to chronicle the past few years—so much so that I made a copy for myself."

"It will be a useful reference if you ever write your memoirs—_The Adventures of Femina Carolinae."_

"Do not tease me. It is you who should consider writing your memoirs. Captain Bordon agrees with me."

Julia came into the parlour and overheard the last exchange.

"Are you writing your memoirs? What a wonderful idea! Make them good and bloody!"

Tavington gave a wry laugh. "That shouldn't be difficult." He shook his head. "Soldiers who write their memoirs are either defending past mistakes or trying to give themselves undue importance. I feel no need to defend myself and I know just how much I contributed to the war."

"Then you should tell everybody the truth," declared Julia. "People always find that unusual and refreshing. And don't write it like so many of the histories—all dry, with only battles and no women at all. You should put in the battles, of course, because I suppose that's the point, but you should tell about other adventures too, like saving us. In fact, you should put lots of women in it because people like to read about them, and then it won't just be old jealous soldiers reading it."

"My darling girl, I wouldn't know where to begin." 

Julia bounced excitedly on the sofa. "You should begin at the beginning. You should tell about your mother's horrid family and how they mistreated you. Wouldn't they just die of shame? And serve them right! You should tell about your dreadful school and about being a young officer. I'd like to know more about that. You can get back at everyone who has ever been mean to you! You can tell about being wounded and how much it hurt. And then you can tell everyone how you would have won the war if it hadn't been for Sir Henry Clinton and the Royal Navy---and the weather, of course."

Elizabeth laughed, "She really is right, you know. Please consider it as a future project."

"I promise to think about it. Right now, I am too happy with my family to need other employment."

*** 

Tavington loved waking in his own house. Every day he opened his eyes and saw his own bedchamber. The room was his, and the bed, and the splendid green brocade bed curtains. Peculiarly and privately his own was the pretty pregnant wife curled on her side next to him. He would get up and look out the window, and everything he could see was his. Of course, everything also belonged to Elizabeth, including himself, but that was a very agreeable thought.

This morning he would take Aeolus out for a gallop in the autumn air. Their first little harvest was already gathered and stored, and he had the leisure to please himself. October 19th was not an auspicious anniversary, and he felt the need to do something to avoid thinking of this date last year, and the unhappy recollections of the surrender. He might ride all the way to Annapolis Royal to undertake some errands. The trees were ablaze with all the colours of the fall.

"So beautiful," murmured Elizabeth, sitting up in bed. She was looking past him, out the window at the trees. "Autumn in South Carolina was never so vivid."

Tavington sat on the edge of the bed and held her hand. "Sometimes I wonder what your father would have made of it."

Elizabeth looked curiously at him. "You were thinking of my father? How odd. I dreamt of him last night, wandering about our birches with his sketch book." She shifted her position, obviously uncomfortable. "I have mixed feeling about my father, but I do miss him. I wish he were here, with my mother and my lost sisters and brothers. I miss my cousins, and I even sometimes miss my aunt, with her keen observations. If they had not died, they might all have been here with us."

"They _are_ here with us, and they always will be."

She put her hand on his arm. "My dearest, I do not wish to alarm you, but we might need more company than memories today. Mrs. Bordon promised to be with me when the time came---and I think the time has certainly come."

After that, the house was turned upside down. Tavington raced Aeolus over to the Bordons' to fetch Polly. She came, prettily flushed with pleasure and excitement. Bordon came along, to bear him company and hammer him unmercifully at chess. With most of the womenfolk attending Elizabeth, the two men were left to the cooking and attendance of Strephon and Keziah. Julia sat glumly in the library with her brother and his friend, banished from her sister's room, and she politely refused Bordon's offer of a game.

"They think I don't know what's going on, but I do. And I think," she said very pointedly, looking up toward Heaven, "that women's affairs have been _very poorly arranged_."

*** 

It was well past eight o'clock in the evening when they called him in to see his wife and son. 

Elizabeth was pale and fragile, but glowing with the happiness of new motherhood. She held a squirming, pink creature out to Tavington. Obliged from courtesy to take it, he stared at little William Fitzroy Tavington. _Such an ugly thing_, thought Tavington. _How shall I ever love him? _Then the baby gave Tavington a crooked little smile; and he loved him.

Elizabeth was irrationally apologetic. "I am very sorry, my dearest, that little William should be born on this day, but indeed I could not help it."

Tavington smiled tenderly at her, "My love, I am delighted at the day. It replaces an unfortunate memory with a most joyful one. There is no better way to put the past behind us, and indeed to make us forget it altogether."

She smiled tiredly back, "It no longer grieves you, then, that we lost the war?"

"No." said Tavington, kissing his son. "No. The King lost the war. We won."

---

Author's notes: This chapter is for Lesley, who wanted pirates. 

Letters of marque were contracts between ship owners and governments, granting the right to raid enemy shipping for a share of the take. As the British government did not regard the Continental Congress as a legitimate government, privateers taken in arms were generally treated as pirates. Nonetheless, American privateers effectively disrupted British shipping throughout the Revolution. Rather than blasting their prey out of the water (which would have been counter-productive), they relied on bluff and subterfuge (as I show above).

The Sinclair Inn, dating from 1781, is still to be seen in Annapolis Royal.

There is but one chapter left—the epilogue! 


	31. Chapter ThirtyOne: EpilogueAve atque val...

****

Disclaimer: I do not own the rights to the Patriot, but I too have lived in Arcadia.

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE: Epilogue---_Ave atque vale_!

Sir William Tavington moved through the press of guests, hoping to have a word with his wife before the music began. He had never been the most sociable of men, but his position on the governing council of Nova Scotia made it imperative that he occasionally host these affairs. And then, Elizabeth and Julia enjoyed them so much, that it was worth missing his children's bedtime on occasion. In a few years, the oldest among them could be allowed to join the festivities. Emma already was a charming dancer, and would no doubt be as notable a belle as her Aunt Julia.

Julia still swore she would never leave them, but it was growing more and more difficult to refuse her crowd of suitors. She was, after all, the greatest heiress in Nova Scotia. Her situation made her the object of envy: he had overheard the two older Hopkins girls, Ruby and Sapphira, spitefully criticising her as "turrible proud, riding around on that fine horse of hers like the Queen of Sheba." Tavington wondered if the words had been said to her face. That might explain why Julia had insisted on that particular name for her mare. He smiled to himself. Girls might talk, but their parents, he noticed, encouraged their sons to make themselves agreeable to such a lovely and eligible young lady.

Julia was not without admirers of her own sex, as well. Pearl Hopkins seemed less interested in her sister's complaints, than in the rumours that Miss Wilde had bed curtains of rose velvet, and that she possessed a comb of silver and ivory.

Time had treated them all well, except for the horrible alarm he had had last year, when Elizabeth had nearly died giving birth to their eighth child, little Edward Everleigh Tavington. Sir William was secretly pleased when the physician had informed him that Lady Tavington would certainly not conceive again. A family of eight children was a very fine family, and he was happy to have Elizabeth well and safe, and not always worn out with endless childbearing.

He stopped to speak briefly with the Bishop. Back in'87, they had heard that Nova Scotia was to have a bishop of its own. Great was their surprise and pleasure to find that the man appointed was their own Reverend Mr. Inglis, who had married them. On his travels around Nova Scotia, the bishop had visited them, remembered them well, and expressed his interest in all their doings. He had built a summer house in the Annapolis Valley, only a few miles to the east, and they saw him fairly often. Now, of course, he was trying to persuade Sir William to send his sons off to the new school, King's, that he had established over in Windsor. Bordon was talking seriously about sending Hugh next fall, and young Will was anxious to go along with his best friend. If anything could reconcile Tavington to sending a child of his to school, the idea that said child would be in Charles Inglis' good hands could do it. Their second son, John Wilde Tavington, also wanted to go with the others, but although the school would take boys as young as eight, Sir William thought ten was quite young enough to leave home.

Bordon, he noted, was deep in conversation with Duncan Monroe. After the fire at the Legion settlement at Guysborough, a number of their old comrades from the Green Dragoons had drifted up into the valley. The Willett brothers, along with another former officer, Hugh Davis, were settled in nearby Granville. Sir William and his family had attended Samuel Willett's wedding to a local girl, Leah de St.Croix. His brother, Walter Willett, had had a more complicated situation. He had left a wife and seven children in Pennsylvania who had refused to join him in Nova Scotia. He had managed, with considerable difficulty, to obtain a divorce and was now remarried.

Bordon, an elected assemblyman, was a prominent local figure. There had been a brief unpleasantness a few years ago, when a former comrade in his cups had let slip a reference to Mrs. Bordon's past. The Tavingtons and their associates had closed ranks protectively around her, and put paid to the gossip. Tavington had, with trepidation, begun to tell Elizabeth something of the truth, but she had surprised him by seeming to know all about it.

"Really, my dearest, you seem to think that women never talk to one another. Dear Mrs. Bordon told me years ago all about those terrible times, and how she suffered. I will certainly not allow anyone to throw stones at her, whether some feckless soldier, or those Yankees, who understand nothing of what women endured in the War." Tavington, wondering what Polly _had _said to her, admitted to himself that he did not know much of Polly's early life, or how she had come to be a camp follower. The matter never arose again.

Monroe had not adjusted well at first to civilian life. He had sold his original grant for a pittance, and had appeared one morning, half-naked and dead drunk, on Bordon's doorstep. Tavington had found employment for him in the Surveyor General's office, and Monroe found enough travel and variety to satisfy him there.

Sergeant Davies had also appeared; this time on Tavington's doorstep, but he was a man with a plan. He had been a miller in his life before the war, and convinced Tavington to allow him the use of some of the land at the river's edge to build a gristmill. Davies had done well, and his success had drawn others to the spot. A little village had sprung up, with not only the grist mill, but a sawmill, a store, a tavern, a post office, a smithy, and eventually, with Tavington's donation of land and the Bishop's blessing, their own church, St. John's. When Tavington had been approached about a name for the new town, he did not hesitate to suggest one; and Arcadia, Nova Scotia, was born and was now prospering.

The front door opened briefly, and there was a sudden aroma of cigar smoke. Some of the young men were outside, discussing the situation in France. Tavington could not have been less interested. The French had supported the rebels in their revolution, and were now reaping what they had sown. The cigar smoke reminded him of McKay and Amelia and their tobacco plantation.

They had finally received a letter around the time Emma was born. It had traveled a long time, over mountains and over seas from the unknown country of Kentucky where Amelia lived. The letter was full of affectionate descriptions of her husband and their two wonderful children, but was oddly prosaic for someone who had once lived so entirely through books. As Amelia told it, aside from some temporary difficulties with Indians and river pirates, they were doing extremely well. Their property was vast and rich, their tobacco crops wildly profitable, and they had no idea of leaving what was now their beloved home. It was no great surprise. Elizabeth had sighed over it, and Julia had affected a cold and unconcerned expression.

One line of the letter caught Elizabeth's alarmed attention. Amelia had said "once more, I must express my gratitude to dear Colonel Tavington for my pistol."

"What do you suppose she means?" asked Elizabeth, horrified.

"I imagine she shot somebody again," offered Julia. She was unsympathetic with Elizabeth's distress. "Oh come, Lilabet, you've done it yourself. I suppose it will be my turn someday."

Sir William looked into the parlour, and smiled at the beautiful portrait of Emma Wilde. It still held its place of honour above the mantel, quite undamaged after its many travels. Back in '84, he had been oppressed with a sense of unfulfilled duty to his deceased father-in-law. He had written to John Wilde's old publishers, and asked them if they might be interested in any of his hitherto-unpublished pictures.

The Penroses were indeed interested, and wanted to see what Wilde had created in the last years of his life. The upshot was that Tavington found himself sailing to England, with John Wilde's portfolio and a number of other works that Elizabeth had preserved. At the publisher's request, he also crated and brought the portrait of Mrs. Wilde. The pictures had been examined, admired, and the projected book became a settled thing. The original engraver of the first volume was engaged to work on it, along with his sons. The publishers had requested that Tavington write a brief preface.

Bordon had traveled with him. His friend felt it was a good opportunity to see his family after his long absence, and assure them of his well-doing. Tavington had stayed with them for some time, and found the family pleasant but curiously dull. It was a surprise that someone as adaptable and adventurous as Hugh Bordon had come from such stock.

The publishers liked Tavington's preface very much—so much, in fact, that they approached him about writing something else for them. Thus, he was finally talked into telling his story.

Tavington had done his best to be truthful in his memoirs. He began them that summer in England, with Bordon's assistance in recalling dates and places. He had continued to work on them during the voyage back, and on and off again the following year. He had to return to England the next year, anyway, to have a look at the progress on the new _Flora and Fauna, _and to be present at the exhibition of Wilde's pictures that would publicise the book. Elizabeth had not been happy to see him off, and implored him not to make a habit of these journeys.

The pictures had made a sensation. Tavington had had to refuse a number of persistent and extravagant offers for the works, above all for the portrait of Emma Wilde. Some very, very distinguished individuals had pressed him hard to name his price, but Tavington wished to be able to live at peace with his wife, and no amount of money was worth risking that. The admirers of the portrait had to content themselves with the engraving that served as the frontispiece of the book. All the originals, the engraved copies now complete, were carefully packed and ready to return home with him.

Tavington found himself feted and petted by society. It would have been a heady experience, had he been younger and more naïve. He knew how transitory celebrity was, and decided to enjoy it for what it was worth. If it lasted a season, that would suffice, for he would be headed home at the end of it anyway. His portrait was painted, he was made much of at balls, and he was even approached by his odious Fitzroy-Hughes cousins, now hoping to ingratiate themselves with one they had previously despised. He turned them away with cool and formal politeness, much to their chagrin; for his next invitation---no, it must be called a command—was to appear at Court.

He was old enough to see the absurdity of all the protocol, but also old enough to know the value of such recognition. It had climaxed in a knighthood, and Tavington hid his real pleasure behind a mask of arrogant calm. He had always longed to be valued and praised, and this was a consummation of all such desires. He knew that there was a political motivation behind it: there always was. Relations with the fledgling United States of America were particularly frigid at the moment, and a knighthood for a famous enemy of theirs, such as Tavington, was a way of putting the King's former subjects in their place. Tavington knew he was being made use of, but did not care. It was something wonderful to give Elizabeth, who had contributed so much to their prosperity. He was delighted to have the knighthood, and took it home to her proudly, along with the other things he had collected on the journey: the books, the music, the climbing roses. He left England behind, with no particular desire ever to set foot there again.

It was just as well that he was gone from England by the time his memoirs were out, for they proved controversial, if popular. He had been truthful, but selective in his truths. There were things he did not want the public to read, former comrades to read, or Elizabeth to read. Time and fatherhood had changed his views in a number of ways; and while it was useless to wish certain things undone, he took no pride in them. The full details of his romance and his courtship of his wife were no one else's business, but bowing to Julia's pleas, he had included their meeting and something of their difficulties. He still received letters about the book, from argumentative old soldiers and from silly women.

He had been appointed, immediately upon his return home, to the King's Commission overseeing restitution for the Loyalists' lost property. He had resisted serving until Elizabeth's claim was settled. She had documented her case well, and received a comparatively generous award. Though forty-two hundred-odd pounds was a ridiculous sum for an estate like Arcadia, it was more than most received. It was divided with Julia, of course. Though the sum was inadequate, Elizabeth and Julia agreed that they would rather have twenty-one hundred pounds apiece than not.

The tall and handsome clock in the entry hall chimed the hour. It was a remarkable Dutch piece and one of the few objects Tavington had brought home from his journey to Jamaica in 1790. He pulled out his watch to check the time against the clock. His mother smiled up from the watchcase, happy for him.

Elizabeth's uncle had never replied to her letter, and they assumed he did not care to resume the relationship. Great was their surprise when some years later they received correspondence from a solicitor, regarding the last will and testament of the late Edward Everleigh, Esq. That gentleman may not have desired contact or conversation with his niece, but when he died, it was discovered that he had left his entire estate to Elizabeth and Julia, as his only surviving (legitimate) relatives.

Elizabeth was somewhat embarrassed, and confessed to her husband that she had blundered when writing to her uncle.

"I was still so upset about Amelia's defection, that when I wrote I said nothing of her. Uncle Ned must have assumed she had died along with the other children. I know I never told him she was living in Kentucky. We must share this with her—it would be very wrong not to."

Tavington gave her his provisional agreement. It was unclear what the estate was worth. With regret, he concluded that he would have to go to Jamaica himself and resolve the situation. As the husband of one heiress, and the guardian of the other, only he could do it. Even Elizabeth admitted there was no other possible solution.

Taking Strephon with him, he set out on what proved a most curious, exotic, and dangerous adventure. He never told his family much of what occurred, not wishing to alarm them. The rewards had been worth the risks. Edward Everleigh had done very well indeed in the sugar business, and had left a plantation worth fifteen thousand pounds, and a financial estate of over a hundred twenty thousand. Tavington returned home with a fortune, and with some splendid objects, such as the clock, as keepsakes.

They were rich. Julia was rich. And they must, in honour, contact Amelia to arrange for her to receive her rightful share. Posting her a letter of credit was not a reliable option. Elizabeth wrote to her sister, and asked her to come and collect her inheritance.

In the end, it was not Amelia, but David McKay who met Sir William and Lady Tavington in Halifax. Julia refused to go; and while Elizabeth tried to persuade her otherwise, Tavington thought it best not to command her attendance. Tavington would not have known the tall, rangy man, looking far older than his years, if he had met him on the street. McKay was courteous, but reserved; not best pleased at leaving his family for what might have been a fool's errand. Even when the amount of the bequest was proved to him beyond a doubt, McKay had retained the same impassive, hard-bitten demeanour. Tavington wondered if McKay thought them idiots for sharing the money. His replies to Elizabeth's endless questions about Amelia, their children, and their home were short, carefully polite, and not particularly descriptive. Only near the end of his visit did he pull out a sketchbook for Elizabeth to see.

In it, Amelia had drawn her children, her husband, her neighbors, and her house slaves. There were numerous pictures of their handsome home; tall and white, with a pillared veranda. Elizabeth paused over Amelia's self-portrait, touching the face gently, as if trying to trace a resemblance to the girl she had loved in the woman's face. She had asked McKay if she could have the book, but he had refused; he had brought the book for her to see, but it was far too precious to Amelia and to himself to permanently part with.

Tavington was glad when he had gone. The visit had very much sunk Elizabeth's spirits, and he hated to see her distressed, above all when she was with child. When shortly afterward she had had such a painful and perilous labour with their last born, he had felt very bitterly toward the McKays. He and Elizabeth had agreed to name the new little boy after the founder of their much-increased prosperity. Eight children—four boys and four girls—were indeed all the family even a fond father could ask for.

_Sometimes more family than I can easily deal with._ Naughty, adorable little Celia was hiding behind the rails at the landing, looking down at him with a self-satisfied smile. Her cap had been tossed aside, and her dark wayward curls were everywhere. Bright blue eyes met his, and she gasped, knowing that she was discovered.

"Why are you not in bed where you belong?" he demanded.

"I needed to see you, Papa."

"Well, here I am. Now be off with you!"

"I need to kiss you good night."

"If I give you a kiss, you will next beg a drink of water."

"No, I'll be good. All I need is a kiss."

He climbed the stairs, and swept her up in his arms, kissing her soundly. She laid her head on his shoulder as he carried her back to the nursery. Walking past the room Will and John shared, he heard no sound. If they were up to devilry, they were at least quiet about it.

Keziah was in the nursery, tending to little Edward. She looked up as Tavington entered with Celia, and apologised for letting her get away. Tavington did not blame her: she had plenty of work keeping the nursery in order tonight all by herself. Not only Edward, but three-year-old Margaret and four-year-old James still required a great deal of attention. Those latter were asleep, sprawled with childish abandon in their little beds.

His other children were also sleeping peacefully. Emma, at eight, was a pretty and ladylike child, and six-year-old Sarah Jane was a little angel—completely unlike her namesake. Tavington bent to kiss the delicate, pale face, and batted away Celia's hand as she tried to pull her sister's hair. Out of respect for Miss Everleigh, they had decided early on to name a daughter Sarah, but found calling her Sarah Jane kept everyone from confusing her with the Bordon's elder girl, also Sarah, but called Sally.

Celia had lost interest in tormenting her sister, and stroked her father's face admiringly. "Oh, Papa," she murmured, "You are my hero."

Melting inside, but determined not to let her see it, he laid her in the bed next to Emma, with another kiss, and an admonition to settle down. "If I cannot trust you to stay in bed," he warned, "I cannot let you girls have your own room this summer, as we planned. Or perhaps," he continued, at his most silken, "Emma and Sarah Jane shall share the room, and you will have to stay in the nursery until you behave."

Celia's brows contracted stormily, and Tavington warned her to be quiet with a look. "But Sarah Jane's a _baby_!" she objected in a whisper. "She's only six, and I'm a great girl of seven!" She saw her father's stern demeanour, and tried another tactic. "If you had kissed me earlier, I wouldn't have needed to get up and find you."

Tavington relented with another quick kiss, and a final goodnight, "Go to sleep at once. I must get back to the guests—and your Aunt Julia will be singing soon. She would be hurt if I missed that."

"Just you wait," muttered Celia, pulling the sheet up to her chin, "Just you wait until _I'm_ a young lady. I'll sing better than anybody. The _King _will come to hear me, not just the neighbors."

"Hush," he commanded softly, and she shut her eyes. Tavington stood up, and with a nod to Keziah, left the room to go back downstairs.

Julia's admirers were already crowding near the pianoforte. A few years after their arrival in Nova Scotia, about the time Julia turned fifteen, she had surprised them by suddenly becoming an accomplished young lady. It had happened almost overnight, and Elizabeth had been pleased with Julia's new application to her music. She played well, and was acquainted with the newest and best music London publishers could provide. Her high, light voice had matured, under Elizabeth's tutelage, to a very pretty soprano. She was certainly the best young lady musician in their part of Nova Scotia, and was still outstanding when compared with the other young ladies they were in company with in Halifax. She was preparing to sing now, with a rather naughty look in her eye.

"Let Bucks and let bloods to praise London agree

Oh, the joys of the country my jewel for me.

Where sweet is the flower that the May bush adorns,

And how charming to gather it----but for the thorns.

  


Where we walk o'er the mountains with health our cheeks glowing

As warm as toast honey ----when it is not snowing,

Where nature to smile when the joyful inclines

And the sun charms us all the year round—-when it shines.

  


There twelve hours on a stretch we in Angling delight,

As patient as Jobs, though we get ne'er a bite,

There we pop at the wild ducks, and frighten the crows

While so lovely the icicles hang to our clothes.

There with aunts' and with cousins' and grandmother's talking,

We are caught in the rain as we're all out a -walking,

While the muslins and gauzes cling round each fair she

That we look all like Venuses sprung from the sea.

  


Oh, the mountains, and valleys and bushes,

The Pigs and the screech owls and Thrushes,

Let Bucks and let bloods to praise London agree,

Oh, the joys of the country my Jewel for me!"

Sir William caught his wife's eye, and they exchanged an amused glance. In private, they shared the hope that Julia would find someone who would understand and appreciate the liveliness of her mind. Sometimes, Elizabeth despaired. The local swains were certainly not up to her mark, and Julia enjoyed mocking them as much as she enjoyed flirting with them. Sometimes she managed both at once.

Perhaps dancing with a prince had made her too fastidious. On two occasions, Sir William had encountered Prince William Henry, the Duke of Clarence, now captain of his own ship, the _Andromeda,_ when the prince had put in at Halifax. Sir William's family had been with him on the last occasion, shortly after he had been appointed to the Governing Council, and they had attended a ball given in the prince's honour. Though Sir William had heard that the prince's taste ran more to mature and sophisticated women, the prince had nonetheless asked Julia to dance with him. He really was not the handsomest, nor the cleverest of men, but he was indeed a prince, and Julia was duly flattered. Sir William was gratified by the prince's polite gesture, but less so when the prince asked Lady Tavington for the next two dances, and was known to have asked some friends about the state of the Tavingtons' marriage. He had evidently received an unsatisfactory answer; for he had afterwards devoted himself to John Wentworth's wife, Frances, to Tavington's great relief.

Eventually the guests were on their way, courteously sped by the good wishes of their hosts.

"I thought they'd never leave," growled Tavington.

His wife smiled up at him. "I thought they wouldn't, either."

Tavington turned to Julia. "Rob Carlisle was attentive, as usual."

"Hope springs eternal," Elizabeth observed.

Julia laughed derisively, "_False_ hope springs eternal. He's such a milksop. He nearly fainted when I showed him the dog picture." Yawning hugely, she made her way back into the house, and up the stairs to her beautiful chamber.

Elizabeth was silent a moment, considering. "We shall have to go to Halifax again, and look over the newly arrived officers of the garrison. Julia needs dash along with the devotion."

"There is always the possibility that she might indeed find herself an officer. That officer, however, might have a home in England and would carry her off."

Elizabeth looked sad and rested her head on his shoulder. "It would hurt me horribly to lose her companionship; but I would not be so selfish as to deny her any chance for happiness."

Tavington felt that losing Julia would hurt him horribly as well, and ventured, "Perhaps she would really be happier with us."

"Who can say? But it must be her choice." She looked up at the stars and smiled to herself. "Hercules: at home in the sky, after all his labours."

It was a clear night, and the breeze made Elizabeth shiver in her thin dress. Pretty as the hand-painted silk was, Sir William thought woman's fashions were growing skimpier and more revealing every year. He put his arm around her and pulled her warmly to him. "We can see the stars just as well from the window of our bedchamber. Let us go in."

Strephon was already moving through the rooms: extinguishing the lights, damping down the fires, preparing the house for the night. The parlour was still lit, and Elizabeth stopped there to shut the pianoforte. She set aside Julia's music, with a soft laugh.

Tavington found a candle for himself, and offered Elizabeth his arm. As they ascended the stairs, he noted as he had many times, the extraordinary shadows they cast about them. They turned at the landing, reached the top of the stairs and went down the hall: past the room where Will and John whispered their plans for fortune and glory; past the nursery where the little ones dreamed of ballrooms, of battles, of adoring audiences, of loving families, and of Heaven. Sir William and Lady Tavington entered their bedchamber and shut the door behind them.

_Ave atque vale_, Tavington! Hail and farewell! One never knows when a life has attained its perfect moment. For while there is love and hope, the respect of one's fellows, and the lavish bounty of the earth, death also is always in Arcadia. Whether now or not for decades, it must come; separation must come, and the end of happily ever after. There is always a last time for everything: a last word, a last kiss, a last note from the pianoforte.

But for now, Colonel Sir William Tavington, late of the Green Dragoons and once Butcher of the Carolinas, lies close in his lady's arms, and cares neither for past nor future.

So uncertain are mortal judgements, the same person most infamous, and most famous, and neither justly.-----Sir Philip Sidney, Arcadia

_When a tree dies, plant another in its place_----_Carolus Linnaeus_

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Author's new note: 07/07/06- If you have taken the trouble to read this to the end, please take just a moment to leave a comment. This story has received thousands of hits in the last few months, with hardly a peep. I really do consider reader input in planning new stories.

Author's notes: Tarleton received a knighthood, and thus Tavington must have one as well, in order to keep the parallel universes in balance.

The song is "The Joys of the Country," by Charles Dibdin (1745-1814). You may hear it on the CD "Jane's Hand: the Jane Austen Songbooks," from Vox .

There is, in fact, an Arcadia, Nova Scotia, but it is not my fictional village.

A final thanks to my loyal reviewers: Zubeneschamali, Slytherin Dragoon, Foodie, Kirixchi, ladymarytavington, Catherine Tavington, Kontara, AnchovyEater1, katres. Prophetic Fire, Lintasare, JaneyQ, and Carmen Sandiego. You've all done a great deal to make this a memorable experience.


	32. Appendices

**_Disclaimer: I do not own characters from the film The Patriot, but I'm sure you know that already._**

**APPENDICES**

A number of my readers have asked about the fate of my characters. Here is some appended material.

For those who wish to know more about the historical figures who appear in this story, like Cornwallis, O'Hara, Rawdon, Ferguson, Greene, Balfour, the Duc du Lauzun, etc., I recommend Marg's site, , which contains brief biographies. What is known of Polly is mentioned in Ferguson's biography.

If you check my author page, you will find the URL of the more polished, R-rated version of this story.

**Appendix A: Julia Wilde**

Born March 27, 1770. Died September 22, 1856.

Julia's wealth and beauty had made her much sought after by the young (and not-so-young) Nova Scotia beaux. In the fall of 1793, she traveled with her brother-in-law and sister, Sir William and Lady Tavington, to Halifax. Sir William had a meeting of the Governing Council to attend, and his family accompanied him, staying in the townhouse they had built in the colonial capital. They had a delightful time, especially Julia, who unexpectedly met the most charming young man in the world: a young officer, then- Captain Sir Henry (Harry) Marlowe, Bart. As a great author has said, "Any further definition of his merits must be unnecessary; the most charming young man in the world is instantly before the imagination of us all."

Sir Harry was actually on his way back to England, but he was pleasantly delayed by the attractions of the renowned Miss Wilde. Admitting to his friends that they had not overpraised her, he met all her standards, not even shrinking from the infamous "dog picture challenge," that had confounded all others before him. He resolutely made himself agreeable to all her family, and even emerged unscathed from an interview with her notorious brother-in-law and guardian, Sir William "The Butcher" Tavington.

As Sir Harry was his own master, and had no parents to forbid his choice of a provincial bride, the engagement followed precipitously on the first meeting, and the marriage, solemnised by Bishop Charles Inglis, followed hard on the engagement. Tears and promises of diligent correspondence followed between the sisters. Sir William broadly hinted at mayhem if his beloved sister-in-law were to be inconvenienced in any way. Words such as "I know where you live," and "You do not know what pain is," were bandied about, but otherwise the period was marked by the most affectionate and well-bred sentiments.

Though regretting the necessity of the long transatlantic voyage, young Lady Marlowe embarked with great intrepidity on her new life. Arriving at Portsmouth, she enjoyed the trip to London, the many sights of that great city, danced with unexampled stamina, and charmed the fashionable world with her outspoken wit.

After a delightful period in town, they proceeded on to Sir Harry's countryseat, Blackmallow Hall, a lovely, moated, 15th century manor house in Norfolk. Lady Marlowe took charge of the household with her customary energy, and her presence was soon considered essential at any ball, hunt, or party in the country. Lady Marlowe wrote ceaselessly to her sister, Lady Tavington, and it is unfortunate that more of this correspondence has not survived; but both ladies' descendants, true Victorians that they were, were utterly appalled at the frankness with which the sisters discussed their marital felicity. There was considerable contact between the Tavington and Marlowe households, especially prior to 1803, and the young Tavingtons used Blackmallow Hall and Marlowe House in London as their bases when in England.

Lady Marlowe bore her husband an heir and a spare without complaint (Henry, 1794 and Philip, 1796) and supported her husband's political ambitions. With the renewal of hostilities with France, it became apparent that Sir Harry felt his true calling was the army. Saddened by her sister Elizabeth's death in 1803, she sublimated her grief by accompanying her husband throughout his travails in the Peninsular War ("I can ride as hard as anybody," she declared, refusing to be left behind.); and accompanied Sir Harry and his great commander, Wellington, on many a foxhunt in Portugal and Spain in between campaigns. "She has," said the Iron Duke sagaciously, "the finest seat I ever saw on a woman." He then had to explain his meaning at length to his Duchess.

Young Harry and his brother Philip, at Eton and Cambridge for most of this period, at length donned uniforms and joined their formidable parents on campaign. Lamenting that they had missed all the excitement, they enjoyed the delights of Paris during the restoration of King Louis XVIII, and found themselves in the thick of events on the return of Napoleon from Elba.

The Waterloo campaign was in some ways the climax of Lady Marlowe's life. Though still a beautiful woman at forty-five, she could claim a husband, two sons, a nephew (Major John Wilde Tavington, see below), a niece's husband (see below), and all unknown, a nephew-in- law (see below), in the same ballroom at the Duchess of Richmond's ball (the most famous in history), and on the same battlefield in the following days.

Unlike many who fled Brussels, Lady Marlowe remained at the house she had rented. Other writers have mentioned seeing her sitting on the steps for hours at a time, listening to the distant cannonfire throughout the three terrible days. At one point, a titled gentleman, who shall remain anonymous for decency's sake, panicked, and attempted to steal her carriage horses for his flight. The fearless Lady M. pulled a pistol and is said to have severely wounded his dignity. Her ill temper, she later confided to friends, was caused by the reek of the chicken a local hotel was preparing as a victory feast for the "Emperor" Bonaparte. As rumours of a British victory circulated, she ordered her carriage, drove to the hotel, bought up much of the victuals from the disconsolate landlord, and repaired to the battlefield to find her men. Though the sights she traveled through might have put lesser men off their food, her own were safe, (only one of them wounded), happy to see her, and very grateful for a good meal.

Her later career, her great social success at the Congress of Vienna, her activities on behalf of soldiers' charities were shadowed by her beloved husband's death in 1823. "At least he lived to see that villain Bonaparte off the premises," she said, referring to Napoleon's death in 1821. Hearing that her brother-in-law, Sir William Tavington, was in failing health, she sailed to Nova Scotia, and was with him to lighten his last days in 1825.

Though delighted with her many grandchildren, Lady Marlowe was not yet ready to settle down to a life of domesticity. Feeling that she had seen too little of the world, she embarked on a grand tour: leaving Norfolk to pass through London, through Paris, and south to the Italian states. She visited Turin, Milan, Venice, Florence, Siena, Rome, Naples and the wilder parts of Sicily with unceasingly aplomb. Feeling this was all too tame, she crossed the Adriatic to Greece and thence to Constantinople, where she was a guest of the Seraglio. Her well-known remark, "What absolute rubbish polygamy is. Any man or woman of the world knows that the other way would be more satisfactory," did not convince the Sultan, but amused him nevertheless.

Feeling her trip would be for naught without a pilgrimage to Jerusalem, Lady Marlowe set out with her Turkish bodyguards to the Holy Land. From thence she crossed the Sinai on horseback, on her way to Egypt. "Like Moses and the Israelites, only in reverse and with better accommodations."

Her baggage replete with statuary, antiquities, goldwork, swords, silks, perfumes, and all manner of souvenirs, she at last returned to England in the spring of 1831, somewhat sunburnt. Legal wrangling continues between her heirs and the Uffizi Gallery in Florence about the questionable circumstances under which she acquired Caravaggio's _St. Sebastian with Admiring Maidens_.

Her long-awaited memoir, _My Adventures on Four Continents_, was published in (curiously) three volumes in 1840. Brushing aside complaints at the long delay, Lady Marlowe said, "It is awkward to write about life, when one is actually living it."

Her later years were full of equal excitement. A great favourite of the young Queen Victoria, Lady Marlowe enjoyed the pleasures of the Court, and wrote three other books of note: _Carolina in Flames_, a thinly veiled _roman a clef_ about the American War of Independence, which boasts a hero bearing a strong resemblance to her beloved brother-in-law, Sir William Tavington. The beloved children's classic, _The Rebel Rabbits_, is a charming and perceptive allegory of the same war. The lesser known_, Emperor of all the Rabbits_, an equally delightful allegory of the Napoleonic Wars, has been recently rediscovered by critics, who compare it to _Animal Farm_; and is now again in print.

Surrounded by her large family, Lady Marlowe peacefully departed this life in 1856; and as she had indicated no wish for a public funeral service in London, she was laid to rest in the Marlowe family chapel. On her tomb were inscribed the words of Shakespeare: _Age cannot wither nor custom stale her infinite variety. Julia, Lady Marlowe: Wife, Mother, Author, Adventuress._

**Appendix B. Amelia Wilde**

Born September 2, 1765, Arcadia Plantation, South Carolina. Died October 30, 1830, Henderson Co., Kentucky.

The fifth child and third daughter of John and Emma (Everleigh) Wilde, Amelia's life was quite different than her sisters'. In January 1782, she and her young husband, David McKay, slipped by boat out of Charleston, and headed north. They were left at their request, in a deserted cove, with their belongings. They spent the rest of the winter in Charlotte, North Carolina, where they made further purchases, including six slaves. When asked where they had come from, they said simply that they had been burned out and were headed to Kentucky. Their extreme youth allayed many suspicions, and they resumed their journey in April 1782. By this time, Amelia was already expecting their first child, but she continued on horseback for nearly the entire journey. Her pretty appearance, on a good horse and a sidesaddle, and dressed in an elegant riding habit, made her a figure of curiosity and respect. At one point, at a tavern on the trail to Cumberland Gap, the locals gathered to stare at the first lady most of them had ever seen. A few woodsmen offered some very fine furs in trade for her, but were refused by her irritated husband. On a number of other occasions, attempts were made to abduct her, (her expectant condition made her even more desirable to some, as it made obvious that she was, in one frontiersman's words, "not just fer show.") and some blood was shed.

Arriving at the settlement of Boonesborough, they were still well over 100 miles from their final destination. Discussion with the settlers there made clear to them that the McKays owned ten thousand acres of unimproved wilderness, without roads, without neighbors, and without any resources other than those they had providently brought along. Nonetheless, the McKays resupplied themselves as well as they could, and found that there were a number of other adventurous souls willing to travel with them for mutual protection. Their holdings, in the Henderson Grant on the Ohio River, they discovered to be good land and well situated for transportation of goods, but a dangerous place: not so much because of the small Indian settlements nearby, but because of the vicious outlaws and river pirates who were to plague the area for the next seventeen years. The McKays decided to build a few log cabins, for themselves and for their slaves, and only to plant crops for their own use the first year. With time, their beautiful mansion, built on the plan of Amelia's childhood home, Arcadia, took shape.

Over the years, David McKay's attitude toward the war, his part in it, and his commanders evolved considerably; and by extension, so did his wife's. McKay came to feel they had been betrayed and misled by those of their parents' generation into supporting a doomed cause. More unhappily, he came to resent Colonel Tavington's leadership, feeling he had committed inexcusable acts under his superior's orders; that the Colonel had been remiss at Cowpens, and was to a large extent responsible for the serious wounds that McKay suffered there, and which troubled him for the rest of his life.

Only once were their former loyalties in danger of being revealed. On a business trip to Harrodsburg in 1788, McKay was accosted one night by a drunk in the local tavern, who insisted he had seen him before. McKay bought the fellow drinks, hoping to shut him up, but the fellow grew louder and louder, trying to remember where he had seen him. When the man finally bawled out, "South Carolina—up on the Santee." There was a pause, the man's eyes widened, and he shouted, "You were riding with---" and suddenly was silent. McKay knew he was in serious trouble, and knew it even more the next day, when he realized, far from any settlement, that he was being trailed by the drunk of the night before. The stranger, on horseback, approached through the trees, and McKay asked him what he wanted. He was told that all the money he knew McKay was carrying would be just enough to keep the stranger from telling the world that he saw the respected Mr. McKay riding with Butcher Tavington in Carolina during the War. McKay agreed and motioned him over, asking if he would be sharing this with anyone. The stranger laughed and said no one else was going to share, for no one else knew what he did. McKay handed him his moneybag with his right hand, with his left he pulled a pistol and shot the man dead before the extortioner knew he was in danger. McKay buried him with great care, and the deed was never discovered, and never disclosed, even to Amelia; but it was one more grievance for McKay to hold against his formerly admired Colonel.

The McKays evidently came into great deal of money in the year 1791. David McKay admitted to neighbors that there had been a family inheritance, and that he had gone to New York to collect it. His journey, both there and back, was fraught with danger, as was the situation of his wife, who took charge of the defenses of their estate with uncharacteristic decisiveness. With the money, the McKays were able to greatly expand their farm operations, hire a number of armed men for greater security, and begin raising tobacco and horses on a large scale. McKay's skill at arms and talent for leadership and organization caused him to be elected Captain of the local militia. Though he had never revealed his military experience, it proved a boon to all in 1799, when he led the hunt for the abominable Harpe brothers. These human monsters were the first recorded serial killers on American soil. It is not surprising that Amelia McKay no longer needed to look to Ulysses and his perils for dangers, when Big Harpe and Little Harpe in their hide-out at Cave-in-Rock were easily the equal of mythical terrors like the Cyclops. The cannibals were hunted down, and by McKay's orders, Big Harpe's head was hung from a tree as an example. With the elimination of the Harpes, the area began to experience a time of relative safety and prosperity.

The McKays provided comfortably for all of their fifteen surviving children. Their three oldest sons fought alongside General Andrew Jackson at the Battle of New Orleans. David McKay died in 1827, and his worshipping wife never recovered from the blow, herself succumbing in 1830. Ironically, Henderson Country became, for a time the home of a man who admired and had been greatly influenced by Amelia's father, John Wilde: the naturalist and painter John James Audubon. Amelia, fearing to reveal her parentage, listened to Audubon's remarks about her father, unable to say a word.

**Appendix C: The ****Montgomerys**

Charlotte Montgomery was not allowed to read Elizabeth's letter. Her unpleasant and controlling sister-in-law snatched it away from her and burned it before she could read more than that Elizabeth, Julia, and Tavington were safely arrived---somewhere. Thus Charlotte did not know their location and was never able to reply. The Montgomerys were not ones to keep track of events in foreign lands, and never did know where they went. Contrary to Miss Everleigh's prediction, she never remarried: her brother and sister-in-law made it impossible for her. Their tyranny drove George out of the house and into the Army.

He served with distinction as a dragoon captain under General "Mad Anthony" Wayne (see Chapter 24) in the Legion of the United States in the Fallen Timbers campaign. On his return, now legally an adult, he had his own epic moment, in which he more or less relived the Return of Ulysses. He evicted the hated Ogles, married a charming young lady, and was a kind and generous father figure to his younger brother and sisters, and a firm and understanding support for his timid mother. He studied law, and eventually became a respected judge. While he could never publicly reveal his opinion of Tavington, he always revered his memory as the one who, above all others, taught him how to be a man. His sisters married and dispersed all over the South. His brother Frank, seeking adventures of his own, joined Captains Lewis and Clark and the Corps of Discovery. He survived the great journey, and eventually settled in the Missouri territory.

**Appendix D: What Polly Told ****Elizabeth******

Due to their situation as wives of good friends, and partly because they were Southern girls in New York and later in Nova Scotia who knew no one else, Elizabeth Tavington and Polly Bordon became very close. They had both suffered in the course of the war, and there was thus quite a bit of common ground. Polly knew that her past might be revealed someday, and decided it was better to tell Elizabeth something, than for her to hear the worst of it with no explanation or excuses from Polly to mitigate the scandal.

Polly told her quite of bit of the truth: she and her sister Sarah had been the daughters of a widowed cotton merchant in Williamsburg, Virginia, and had grown up in comfort and plenty. At the outset of the war, his loyalist views had led to first, ostracism, then to his warehouse mysteriously burning, and then, as hostilities escalated, to him being mobbed and beaten in the street. He died shortly thereafter of "apoplexy," as the doctor called it, but actually from brain damage from the beating. Polly was only sixteen at the time, and her sister Sarah fourteen. Being minors, they came under the guardianship of their uncle, who sold up what was left of their father's property, and took them to live with him in Richmond.

Polly told Elizabeth truthfully that their uncle and aunt were very unkind, and that what money the girls should have inherited was stolen by their guardians. She did not tell Elizabeth about the uncle's disgusting abuse of both girls, or that Sarah became pregnant by it in 1778, when she was sixteen. The uncle and aunt decided to put the girls out of the house for their "moral turpitude." To avoid unpleasant talk, the uncle took the girls along with him on a business trip to Norfolk. He took care of his business and left them at the inn where he had taken rooms. After waiting in vain for him for a few days, the girls found themselves alone and friendless in a strange town, with a bill to pay and no money. The innkeeper allowed them to work off the debt, and they found themselves reduced to servitude. Their names changed too: no longer young gentlewomen named Paulina and Sarah, or even Polly and Sally, as they called each other; they were now "Pol" and "Sal."

Polly told Elizabeth the story of the desertion (without the pregnancy), and obviously, it horrified her. Elizabeth was keenly aware of what might have happened to her if she had not been rescued by Tavington, and had had no money and no relatives to stay with. Becoming a servant was quite bad enough: Polly did not share the horrid details of having to provide other services to the innkeeper, and how they were treated worse and worse, once Sarah's condition became obvious. The baby was stillborn, and when Sarah was somewhat recovered, the two girls left the hateful inn and made their way south towards the British, since they had loved their father and automatically accepted his political views as correct.

In Charlestown, they met Major Patrick Ferguson, and, as he found them charming, came under his protection. What Polly told Elizabeth about the situation was this: that Sarah fell in love with Ferguson and became his mistress; and because he was such a kind gentleman, he allowed Polly to accompany them, and supported her as well. While others might not have believed such a story, Polly knew Elizabeth would, because of Tavington's kindness to Amelia and Julia. Polly desperately wanted Elizabeth's friendship and goodwill, and knew that having been part of a menage a trois would not be acceptable to the rather sheltered lady.

She told Elizabeth the whole horrible tale about King's Mountain, including seeing her sister shot dead in front of her, and at that point admitted that she had been raped after the battle, and by more than one man. Though many people at the time would have despised a woman in such a situation, she knew that Elizabeth would feel only horror and compassion. (Elizabeth the whole while was picturing what might have happened at Arcadia, if she had not been engaged to Charles Crawford.) She also decided that she must be quite honest about her original relations with her husband. She confessed to Elizabeth that after returning to the British, she had felt so bereaved, soiled, and hopeless that she had no longer cared about anything. She had become Bordon's mistress to have food and shelter, but had gradually fallen in love with him, above all after he was seriously wounded. This part of the story made a tremendous impression on Elizabeth, because of her similar care of Tavington. The later events—Bordon's fortunate recovery and their marriage, made the story quite perfect for Elizabeth. Polly did not tell Elizabeth that she had actually been pregnant before the ceremony, and that it was her condition that made Bordon decide to marry her.

Her subsequent behaviour as Bordon's wife certainly never gave Elizabeth any reason to feel anything but affection and respect for her. While not as accomplished or refined as Elizabeth, she had had a decent education, was an excellent needlewoman, and kept an efficient and comfortable home for her family. Polly and Bordon eventually had nine children (and named the eldest daughter after her sister Sarah) and lived as happily ever after as real human beings can.

The Bordons' children: Hugh, b. 1/2/1782; Sarah (Sally),b. 04/18/1783; Frederick (after Bordon's father and older brother), b. 6/27/1785; Robert (after Bordon's Uncle Robert Digby), b. 08/22/1788; Elizabeth (Betsy), b. 11/15/1789; Anthony, b. 12/24/1790; Charles, b. 02/12/1792; Louisa (after Bordon's mother), b. 7/12/1793; and Philip, b. 8/16/1795.

**Appendix E: The Day After : A Vignette Concerning Amelia's Elopement**

Julia was packing the last of her things left in the room she had shared with Amelia. For over half a year they had been students and boarders at Mrs. Rutherford's School for Young Gentlewomen; but now Julia found herself evicted not by another girl, but by the strangest of all residents at such a place: a husband. Most peculiarly, Melly's husband. Melly---no, _Amelia_---was now Mrs. David McKay, and was clearly charmed that she was the first of her sisters to attain the dignity of the married state.

Amelia and That Boy, That David McKay Boy, had stayed out _all night_ together. Lilabet had been frantic with worry, thinking that they could have been abducted, or assaulted, and that Amelia was lying in agony in some abandoned field. She had made Julia go to bed, and Julia had managed to fall asleep eventually; but considering how ill and washed-out Lilabet had looked this morning, Julia could tell _she_ hadn't slept at all. And then _those two_ came strolling in, so pleased with themselves, so _proud_ of what they'd done.

They had plans: and their plans did not include going to New York with them, where Lilabet was finally going to be able to marry Colonel Tavington. Their plans didn't include Lilabet or Julia herself at all. Their plans were to take Papa's Kentucky land grant and go live there by themselves under the rebel government.

That David McKay Boy—_no, Brother David now_-- though Julia swore to herself never to call him that, made Lilabet divide all their money and give him Amelia's third. He had watched Lilabet count it out, too; which Julia thought insulting. She admitted to herself that The Boy probably didn't think Lilabet would cheat him, but, more likely, that she was a mere woman, and too stupid to divide by three.

The Boy was going to _resign his commission!_ Julia knew that there was nothing illegal about this, but that did not make it _right! _Even after the surrender at Yorktown, there was still plenty of fighting going on here in South Carolina. The Boy wasn't like Colonel Tavington, who had had to give his parole to the _dirty rebels. _He and Amelia were going to get a boat to take them a little farther north, and leave them in rebel territory, and then they would go to Kentucky in the wagon that had brought Lilabet, Amelia, and Julia all the way from home.

Julia hated it that they wanted the wagon. It was a little piece of Arcadia, and they had so few pieces left of their old home, that Julia couldn't bear to part with any of them. They would probably want other things, too. What if they wanted Mamma's picture, or Papa's big book? Surely, Lilabet would never let them take those away!

Now she looked at her sister out of the corner of her eye, seeing Amelia putting That Boy's horrid things in the clothes press. She did not want to part with Amelia either. They had lost their father, their mother, and their brother Richard. Aunt Sarah Jane Minerva had died, and even if she was a terrible old woman, she was _theirs_, and they were _hers. _Cousin Frank Montgomery had been hanged by the rebels at King's Mountain, and his family were back in Camden, and they might never see them again. And now, Colonel Tavington had written to tell them that big, friendly Cousin James had been killed at Yorktown. Colonel Tavington said that Cousin James "had died instantly, and suffered no pain," but it still made Julia sad. She didn't want to lose any more family, and if keeping Amelia meant being nice to That Boy, she would try to be just as nice as pie.

"I don't see---" began Julia, but her sister cut her off, seeming to know what she was going to say.

"There is nothing to discuss, Julia. David and I are going to Kentucky. We shall make a new life, far from these melancholy sights, and shall cultivate our garden---"

"But you're deserting us! Why can't you stay with us? We could all go to New York together! Don't you want to sail on a ship?"

Amelia smiled condescendingly, as she had for all of Julia's life, and it never failed to raise Julia's hackles.

"When you are older, you will understand a woman's feelings. The man one loves is everything--he is, as Shakespeare says, _"my lord, my governor, my king_!" If David thinks it best to go West, it is for me, as his helpmeet, to say _"whither thou goest, I will go."_

Julia heard this speech with growing anger and burst out, "I hate that stupid word 'helpmeet!' You're just hiding behind quotations again! It's a good thing for us Lilabet doesn't think like you, or she would have ridden off with Colonel Tavington, and left us in Camden to be trampled by that horrid Mr. Ogle and his horrid wife!"

Angry in her turn, Amelia lost her temper and hissed out, "Well, Julia, _some _women have stronger and deeper feelings than others! Lilabet can't feel much for the Colonel, if she'd rather stay safe here in Charlestown, teaching in a tacky little school!"

"Don't you call Lilabet a coward!" Julia gave Amelia a push, which was returned with greater force. "And don't you say she doesn't love Colonel Tavington! She loves him more than anything! She does! Don't you say mean things behind her back! _You're_ the coward!"

Elizabeth hurried into the room. "Girls!" she cried, astonished. "Are you quarreling?" She pulled the furious Julia away from Amelia. "Stop this now! Everyone can hear you!"

Amelia flared, "I am a married woman, and no one but my husband has any right to tell me what to do!"

Shocked at Amelia, Elizabeth took a moment to collect herself and said with forced calm, "As a married woman, you owe it to your husband to behave with decorum. Shouting at your little sister is hardly the conduct of a lady." She lowered her voice, and said reprovingly, "and it is unspeakably ungrateful to sneer at Mrs. Rutherford's generosity."

"Lilabet, you are a slave to convention," replied her sister, with provoking loftiness. "One should never shrink from unpleasant truths."

Julia gave Amelia another push. "Fancy words, when you and that boy are sneaking away like dirty cowards!"

Elizabeth pulled Julia back, and said sharply, "Our room, Julia, now!"

As her sister pushed her out of the room, Julia shouted over her shoulder, "You're cowardly _deserters!"_

Elizabeth held Julia close to her, and took her quickly upstairs, for the anger was dissolving into bewildered tears. They reached the upper hall and went at once to their room. Elizabeth shut the door behind them.

Julia was flushed with temper and grief. Elizabeth made her lie down on the bed and sponged her hot little face.

"She hates us," she muttered. "She doesn't care about anybody but that boy."

"Julia, she does not hate us. She is in love, and that has blinded her to everything else right now."

"You're in love with Colonel Tavington, and you're not blind. Amelia said you didn't love him as much as she loves that boy. She said you should have gone off---"

"Hush," said Elizabeth, trying to stem the flow of hurt words. "Amelia, whatever she thinks, is very young, and she does not know what she is saying. I told you before, the Colonel decided that it would be best for us to stay behind. That does not mean we do not love one another. It means that we are old enough to think before we do foolish things with wretched consequences."

Julia hiccuped, but lay more quietly. Elizabeth went on, "I know, Julia, how hard it is when someone you love finds someone new and seems to forget you. I know how painful it is, believe me." She spoke softly, confiding an old painful story.

"When I was a little girl, Papa made me his pet, and took me everywhere with him, teaching me all about plants and animals. But when Richard grew old enough to be his new companion, Papa lost all interest in me, and could never understand why I was so hurt and angry. That's why I was sent away to school." She paused, and continued more briskly. "You cannot control how Amelia feels. I will try again to persuade David and Amelia to come with us to New York, but in the end they will do as they please."

"Deserters," muttered Julia.

"Possibly." Elizabeth laid aside the wet cloth, and smoothed Julia's hair. "Julia, this is happening everywhere, all over the Colonies. With the war and all the troubles attending it, families are breaking up and going their separate ways. But know this: I will never desert you, and Colonel Tavington will never desert you. You will always be a precious part of our family, and you will always have a home with us." She gave a rueful laugh, and added, "Though it might not be a very grand home."

"I don't care." Julia looked down at her fingers, interlaced over her sash. "I'll never leave you either."

Elizabeth laughed softly. "You might find someone you want to go away with yourself someday."

"Never!" Julia bit her lip, and asked, "You promise I'll never have to leave?"

"I promise that you can live with us as long as you like."

"Even if it's forever?"

Elizabeth sighed, and looked out the window. "Julia, we are all mortal. Nothing can be forever."

"Promise me."

"You can stay with us as long as we live, if that is what you want."

"Maybe," Julia said, recovering some of her spirit. "Maybe I'll be like Aunt Sarah Jane Minerva, and everyone will be scared of me. That wouldn't be so bad."

"Or maybe you'll meet a dashing dragoon."

Julia gave a little shrug, and seemed ready to fall asleep, exhausted from strong emotions. "Maybe. Or a prince."

Elizabeth smiled, "Or a brave sea captain."

Julia smiled back, drowsily, "We're going to sail on a ship---"

She was asleep. Elizabeth gently removed Julia's slippers, and covered her with the quilt. She left the room and quietly shut the door behind her. _Now, to have a word with Melly......._

**Appendix C. Tavington's Children**

1. Colonel Richard Sharpe, b. ? 1777-d. Normandy, France October 3, 1847.

Richard Sharpe, made famous by the books of Bernard Cornwell, never knew the identity of his father. Nor did he know much of his mother. He made an outstanding career for himself in the army, rising from private to colonel, and campaigned in India, Portugal, Spain, France, and the Netherlands. He had a later, private adventure in Chile with the notorious Lord Cochrane. He had no legitimate children, as his wife had scandalously left him for another, and he could not afford a divorce. Nonetheless his two children with the Vicomtesse de Seleglise were acknowledged and raised by him: the son, Patrick, attended St. Cyr and enjoyed a remarkable military career himself, with long service in North Africa. It is an irony that two of Tavington's grandchildren were, in effect, French.

2. Senator William "Wild Will" Sloan, b. January 3, 1782, Hawkforth House, North Carolina-d. July 4, 1843, Washington D.C.

Unknown to Tavington, he fathered a son on Mrs. Charles (Mary) Sloan. Handsome, brilliant, and reckless, "Wild Will" was his mother's favorite and from an early age astounded everyone with his escapades. His reputed father died in battle in the last days of the war, but young William was accepted as Charles' son by his family and their neighbors; and only at his mother's death did William Sloan receive a letter from her, revealing the circumstances of his conception. Witnesses saw him open the letter, read it with fury, give a harsh laugh, and then throw it in the fire. Senator Sloan's adventurous life encompassed service under General (later President Jackson) against the British in the War of 1812, and some very questionable escapades in Cuba and Central America. His marriage to Caroline Hamilton did much to tame or at least moderately domesticate his habits, and he entered politics with a much-improved reputation. He was a fierce advocate for states' rights and a sworn enemy of all Abolitionists, some of whom suffered violence at his hands. His famous duel with Vermont senator Dartmouth Coffin, conducted in what is now the National Mall near the Capitol, is the stuff of legend. After the death of his wife Caroline, he married the 19-year-old Perdita Langley, and upon her death five years later, the 17-year-old Severine de Blassenville of New Orleans. "I may get older, but my wives just keep getting younger and younger," he remarked smugly to an associate. He fathered a total of twelve children upon his three wives. He died in office, of heart failure, while publicly beating a political adversary with his snake-headed cane.

3. Sir William Fitzroy Tavington, b. October 19, 1782, Arcadia, Nova Scotia-d. February 11, 1855, Halifax, Nova Scotia.

The second Sir William was a distinguished politician and lawmaker. His military career was comparatively brief, though he did see service in the War of 1812. Educated at King's in Windsor, Nova Scotia, and later at Cambridge, he was a splendid example of the second-generation Loyalist. Determined that his beloved Nova Scotia should have all the resources nature and civilisation could afford, he was active in founding its first library, followed by a number of others. He was a generous patron of homegrown talent in literature and the arts: for John Wilde's artistic temperament appeared in a number of his grandchildren in a variety of ways. He was a distinguished author: penning a thoughtful, if reverent biography of his father, a comprehensive history of Nova Scotia, and his _Essays, _a rational defense of a conservative, monarchial point of view. He and his charming wife, Sarah Bordon, and their five children were devoted to his father, and spent a great deal of time at the family estate. He was knighted in 1838.

4. Major General Sir John Wilde Tavington, K.B., b. November 15, 1783, Arcadia, Nova Scotia- d. February 3, 1837, Amritsar, India.

Sir John Tavington's long and distinguished military career is too well known to recapitulate here. In brief, he, like his brother, was put under the care of his aunt, Lady Marlowe, when he was sent to England to complete his education. He was bent on being a soldier, and after a term at Cambridge, convinced his aunt that the army was his destiny. He was entranced with the Old World, and never returned to Nova Scotia after leaving it at the age of seventeen, though he did correspond with his father sporadically. He was extremely close to his uncle and aunt, and his cousins, their sons. Commissioned in 1802, at the age of 18, he served throughout the Napoleonic Wars with great distinction; surviving serious wounds received at Waterloo, which were exacerbated by spending the whole of a night pinned underneath a dead French cuirassier, and his equally dead horse. After Waterloo, he made his life and his career in India, where he became known for his interest and appreciation in the arts and history of that place, and received his knighthood in 1830. His many works include: _Spoken Sanskrit_, _A History of the East India Company, The Way of the East, _and the five volume autobiography_, A Soldier's Life. _With his adored wife, Lakshmi, he raised four children: all sons, who enjoyed remarkable military careers themselves.

5. Emma Elizabeth Tavington Clayton, Viscountess Greystoke, b. March 21, 1785, Arcadia, Nova Scotia-d. May 23, 1864, Castle Greystoke, Cumberland, England.

Considered the most beautiful of all the Tavington daughters, Emma made a sensation at her first London season in 1802, sponsored by her aunt, Lady Marlowe. She immediately caught the eye of the dashing John Clayton, Lord Greystoke. Her parents were apprised of the young people's wish to marry, and came to England to attend the wedding, which was solemnized March 21, 1803. The Tavingtons brought all the younger children with them, and enjoyed a visit of three months. This was the last time the parents and all of their children were together. Lord and Lady Greystoke had a remarkably happy marriage, raised seven children, and their occasional disagreements with Sir Harry and Lady Marlowe were due only to certain political differences, as the Marlowes were deeply conservative in their views, and the Greystokes decidedly on the Liberal side. Lady Greystoke, like her aunt, attended the Duchess of Richmond's ball the night before Waterloo, and accompanied her aunt to the battlefield a few days later for the famous chicken dinner.

The adventures in Africa and elsewhere of Emma's great-great-grandson, a subsequent Lord Greystoke, have been immortalized in the books of the American author Edgar Rice Burroughs. It is interesting that the dark hair and light eyes Lady Greystoke inherited from her father, Sir William Tavington, have remained a feature of the Greystoke line, and were present in the later John Clayton, Lord Greystoke, as described by Burroughs

6. Celia Paulina Tavington, Contessa Castegne, b. February 17, 1786, Arcadia, Nova Scotia-d. May 5, 1836, Venice Italy.

(a.k.a. Cecilia Tavini) The wayward and striking Celia Tavington was one of those most daring and Romantic heroines of the early nineteenth century. Arriving with her family to attend her sister Emma's wedding, she successfully persuaded her parents to allow her to stay in her turn with Lady Marlowe to study music in London and make her debut in society under the sponsorship of her aunt. Her parents permitted this, and returned home to Nova Scotia. Thus, Celia was in London with her aunt when they received the grievous news of Lady Tavington's death in October, 1803. This painful intelligence had a profound and unexpected affect on young Miss Tavington, who felt her mother's life and talent had been wasted raising children in a colonial backwater. She vanished from London, and it was later found, had run away to Italy to become an opera singer. She was a great success, and under her _nom de musique_ of Cecilia Tavini, was a favourite of Rossini, Bellini, and Donizetti_. _Lady Marlowe once commented that Celia was the child who broke Sir William Tavington's heart. Claudia Tremonti, the heroine of Stendahl's novel _Le Chanson de L'Alouette_, is believed to have been based on Celia Tavington. After many adventures, and many romantic liaisons (including the Emperor Napoleon, The Duke of Wellington, Lord Byron, Marshal Ney, and Prince Borghese), she eventually married the dissolute Count Castegne, though her sole child, Diana, is believed to actually have been fathered by Byron. Her exquisite Venetian palazzo was the meeting place of musicians and government ministers; of poets and priests. She was not entirely cut off by her family, for she was visited by a number of them: once by John in 1817, before he left forever for India; twice by her aunt, Lady Marlowe, in 1827 and 1831; and by her sister, several times in 1819, when Lady Greystoke spent a summer in Italy for her health, and for the last months of her life in 1836, when the widowed Lady Greystoke came to care for her. Celia and her father carried on a sad and tender correspondence from 1817 until his death in 1825.

7. Sarah Jane Tavington, b May 10, 1787, Arcadia, Nova Scotia-d. March 30, 1795, Arcadia, Nova Scotia

The early death by appendicitis of their beloved daughter Sarah Jane was a bitter blow to Sir William and Lady Tavington. She was always considered the sweetest tempered of all their children. She had shown a precocious talent for art, and a number of her drawings have been preserved at the Tavington home, where they are still to be seen by visitors.

8. Captain James Wilkins Tavington, b. September 22, 1788, Arcadia, Nova Scotia-d ?1828, place unknown.

Sir William Tavington described Captain James as "the most difficult of all my sons—and the most entertaining." Like his brothers, he was educated at King's. He spent a year at Cambridge, and wrote to his father that he could not bear England. His father, happy enough to have a child return home, did not insist that his son remain at university. When sailing to England for his sister Emma's wedding in 1803, young James had fallen in love with the sea, and that became his passion, his profession, and his life. He learned his profession in merchant voyages to South America and the Pacific, but the northern seas particularly fascinated him. During the outbreak of hostilities in 1812, Sir William, though he had largely withdrawn from public life after his wife's death, invested heavily in privateer vessels, and made a huge fortune in return. His son, James, was the captain of one of the most famous of these, the _Proteus._ Among his prizes was his wife, Anne van Weyden, whom he captured in one of his privateer attacks. Bringing her home with the rest of his booty, the occasionally dense Captain James was taken aback at his father's furious observation that "young ladies are not stray kittens." However, Miss Weyden was there in Arcadia, and obviously with child. There was nothing for Sir William to do but arrange a marriage immediately, and make the frightened young mother-to-be welcome and comfortable. At the close of the war, independently wealthy from his prizes, James Tavington began a series of exploratory voyages to the Arctic. Outfitting a ship, the _Aurora_, designed for this purpose, he became a renowned expert on life in the Arctic. His splendidly illustrated book, _The Voyage of the Aurora_, was compared favorably with the work of his famous grandfather, and was a source of great pride and pleasure to his father. Adventurous to the end, his ship did not return from a voyage north in 1828, and was presumably lost in the Arctic. He was a negligent husband and father, and his three children were largely raised by their mother, their grandfather, and their Aunt Margaret.

9. Margaret Arabella Tavington Bordon, b. July 7, 1790, Arcadia, Nova Scotia-d. November 8, 1878, Arcadia, Nova Scotia.

Devoted to her father, Margaret Tavington, though a noted beauty, refused to leave Nova Scotia for the delights of a London season offered by her aunt, Lady Marlowe. Only thirteen when her mother died, Margaret's affectionate nature and domestic habits led her to undertake the direction of the household and to support her grieving father's spirits through the difficult early period of mourning. Adamant that she would never desert her father, she refused several eligible offers of marriage; but her most persistent suitor, Frederick Bordon, eventually colluded with Sir William in 1821 to create a situation that made it possible for the dutiful daughter to remain with her father and still marry her faithful sweetheart. Frederick Bordon, a talented engineer and architect, moved into the Tavington home, and thus permanent companionship for Margaret Tavington's beloved father was assured. Three children were born of the union, and the Frederick Bordons were also, as described above, the foster parents of the children of James Tavington.

10. Sir Edward Everleigh Tavington, b. December 1, 1791, born Halifax, Nova Scotia-d. February 3, 1869, Ottawa, Ontario.

An architect of Canadian Confederation, Sir Edward' s distinguished political career spanned a formative period in the history of the country. Educated at King's and later at Cambridge, Sir Edward also was noted for his botanical interests, which he shared with his eldest brother, Sir William. He also was greatly interested in education, being firmly of the opinion that Nova Scotia and other British possessions in North America needed institutions the equal of those in England, so that talented sons of the colonies might not be tempted abroad and lost to their home. It is possible that his family's experiences, especially with the distinguished Sir John Tavington, played a role in his viewpoint. His many publications include: _Why Confederation?, A Culture of Our Own, _and _Northern__Gardens__._ His wife, Susan Price, had met him during his time in England, and became an important early figure in improving women's educational opportunities. Their six children received a remarkable and progressive schooling, which their mother described in _An Experiment in Scientific Education_. He received the honour of a knighthood in 1868. The fine public garden that he, with his brother, Sir William, established in memory of their parents is still on of the sights of Halifax. The central fountain, with its mourning nymph is marble, is enscribed _Et__ In __Arcadia__ Ego._


End file.
